


I'm Free (Brooklyn Baby)

by Garotte8Goodnight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gaslighting, Kind of dub-con because of gaslighting, Kinda Hydra Trash Party, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Prostitute AU, Rescue Fic, Rumlow's Fragile Masculinity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is an in-house prostitute at Club Hydra; a secretive, and very exclusive, upmarket club in Washington DC favoured by the less savoury members of the American Government and Department of Defence. </p><p>Steve, a military veteran and newly assigned government agent, is invited to accompany his new STRIKE buddies for a little 'r&r' weekend.</p><p>That's how it begins, and it ends with a change in the political landscape and the earth moving beneath their feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which James is a very, very good boy

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so Valentine's Day I was thinking about AU fic I wanted to write with like prostitute!James falling in love with Steve, and then someone posted a Hydra Trash Party prompt over on Dreamwidth wanting Winter Soldier gaslighting fic with HYDRA waking him between wipes and convincing him that he's a prostitute. Their prostitute. 
> 
> This is kind of the brainchild of that, though not technically a fill for the poor nonnies prompt as this is AU fic with non-Winter Soldier Bucky, and a HYDRA that is more akin to an underground government sex trafficking ring. It kind of turned into "but what if Bucky doesn't mind being a hooker, what if he thrives on it? Sees it as his way of owning these men and his own sexuality? But then what if he meets Steve? And the others don't want to let him go that easily?"
> 
> Also, for those interested parties, it is comic canon that Brock Rumlow has an exclusive club in Washington DC. I don't know why the writers thought this a good idea, but believe you me I love them for it - and anyone else who wants to run with the idea and make dirty trash fic based on the idea should.
> 
> It's actually referenced a number of times in the comics, I.e.; "Crossbones and the Skeleton Crew relaxed in their posh Washington, D.C. exclusive club." Cap. America #387
> 
> Warning; for those who came here thinking it was a love story; it is but it isn't. This isn't fluffy hurt/comfort angst. This is sort of Hydra Trash Party fic, made only sweeter by the fact that gaslighted!James wants it, thus no additional warnings should be needed. I will say, I am not glorifying the mouldy bananas of the trash heap here; this is Dub-con - Bucky has been manipulated and lied to. No matter how sweet and lovely he thinks Brock and Pierce are to him, it is liesss!
> 
> Dead dove, I repeat, dead dove. 
> 
> Tl;dr - James loves his job, maybe loves Steve a little more. HYDRA, and Brock in particular, don't love James - but they sure do love owning him. 
> 
> For every chapter I will include the playlist I listened to whilst writing as a kind of backing track, the music isn't strictly necessary, I just like to make fic that's more 3D than words alone. Each section break "--" is also a song change. 
> 
> Playlist for this chapter;  
> • "Fucked my way up to the top" - Lana del Rey  
> • "Earned It" - The Weekend  
> • "Affection" - Cigarettes after sex  
> • "Brooklyn Baby" - Lana del Rey
> 
> Helpful YouTube playlist to be updated each chapter: http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

 

 

\--

"Prostitution is not just a service industry, mopping up the overflow of male demand, which always exceeds supply. Prostitution testifies to the amoral power struggle of sex, which religion has never been able to stop. Prostitutes, pornographers, and their patrons are marauders in the forest of archaic night" ~ Camille Paglia

"Gunpowder, gelatine  
Dynamite with a laser beam  
Guaranteed to blow your mind  
Anytime" ~ Killer Queen, Queen

\--

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes never meant to become a hooker; he's good at it though. He's a walking sex dream to the men who own him - brown hair, sun streaked lighter on top, brushes just past his shoulders. Silky stands tumbling over tanned skin, drawing tantalisingly against rippling muscle, and long enough to fall over his face, shrouding ice blue eyes when he's playing coquettish. He's not built, but he's lean - lines of loosely coiled muscle trembling as he walks, silently like a jungle cat, hips swaying.

Rumlow is waiting for him on the bed when he enters the room; spread naked and wanting on the burgundy bedspread, the same colour as the blood that beads on his golden skin as the older man leaves a series of small quick bites over his collar bones. He laves at them gently with his tongue after he's done, and James makes sure to moan wantonly in the exact way he knows the dark haired man loves, even as he tilts his head back, baring his throat.

Brock is never unnecessarily rough with him, in fact, compared to some of his other johns and the things they have permission to do to him, Rumlow is surprisingly gentle. He makes sure James knows who's in charge, but the pain is always just on the right side of bearable, and it makes the blood rush in his ears, run hot in his veins. He worships every inch of James' body as often as he marks it, and James never knows what to expect that day until he's already here on the bed with Rumlow, the other man's eyes dark with desire. Rumlow's eyes always tell a story and James thinks it's a novel he will never want to put down; one of sin and worship. It's not love, at least, he doesn't think it is, but it's the nearest he's ever come.

He thinks today is going to be a fairly easy day, Brock is paying attention to his needs even as he takes what he needs to satisfy his own; smooths calloused palms over James' sides, and gently runs nails over his back as he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. James keens high and needy; he knows Rumlow loves him vocal, but even without that knowledge he's not sure he'd be able to contain himself right now without a gag of some description. Now there's an idea.

If it were not for the fact that James knows Brock is a personal friend of Pierce, and he's pretty sure he has something to do with the running of the Club itself, he wonders if perhaps he'd think he's a relative outsider from the way he treats him. Some of the other members of the Club are allowed to be rougher with James, Alexander grants boons to those he favours, but there are limits and rules for outsiders and newcomers. Brock is different though; James knows Pierce wouldn't protest at all if the elder wanted James to submit in every way, wanted to dominate him body and mind, ruin him completely and leave him unavailable for a few days. And yet. Brock doesn't, hasn't once - instead there is always this pleasure-pain. Brock goes out of his way to make sure James is well taken care of during all of their sessions. That, even as he forces him to his knees at Brock's feet, there is a steadying hand on the back of his neck, fingers twining in the short downy hair there.

Brock rumbles above him in a needy growl, tightening his fingers in James' hair, using his leverage to pull his head backwards so he can gaze down into winter pale eyes with rich brown espresso.

"Who do you belong to?" His voice is deep and commanding and that does funny things to James' libido. His cock stands erect, flushed and needy, but he won't allow himself to become any more aroused, creep closer to the edge of oblivion, not without Rumlow's permission.

"You, sir." James gasps, panting with desire his eyes are wide, pupils dilated. A drop of sweat runs down his bare chest and Brock sweep it away with the brush of a finger. Brings it to his lips and tastes.

"Mine," he nods, and to James that is music; makes his heart fast in his chest and the hairs on his arms raise, he can hear his own heartbeat. He doesn't protest when Rumlow pushes his head towards his erect cock, in fact he's eager, takes it deep in his throat and hums around it.

Brock is groaning above him, and James knows the other man is close; he braces himself with large hands against muscular thighs - massages them with his thumbs, moves in small circles as his tongue does the same to Brock's dick. James is an absolute Queen at this and he knows it, nobody can do the things he does with throat and tongue, and he loves feeling the elder mans body come undone under his ministrations. He feels powerful even as he submits, this is where his strength comes from - here on his knees with a beautiful man above him writhing with pleasure. Of course, Brock thinks he's in control here, but really James knows better. This is all his show, and he'll perform to the crowd with aplomb.

\--

Brock soon grips him by the shoulders and pulls him up beside him on the bed, James lets a soft sigh ghost over his lips at the absence of the heavy musk as it slips from his mouth. He doesn't have time to dwell though; flips his hair forwards over his eyes as he settles back against the pillows.

"Do you want to finish in me daddy..?" He's peering up at Brock through shaded eyes, bites his lip as though nervous. Letting his teeth draw tantalisingly slowly over kiss swollen red.

"Of course I do." Rumlow reaches out with faux gentleness as he sweeps the hair back from James' forehead, and the soft hum of contentment that burrs deep in James' chest is not for show.

"On your knees boy."

James is all too happy to comply with his masters orders; he rolls over to his belly with a practiced grace and sits upright, bows his head forwards as he kneels and brings his arms behind his back - presents his wrists to Brock already pressed together.

He feels Rumlow wind a length of satin around them, binding them tight, though not enough as to be truly painful.

He hears the sound of the wooden drawer beside the bed opening, but doesn't turn his head to look, focuses on the velour headboard in front of him. There's a sound of a cap opening, and he's waiting for it as a single slick digit presses against his waiting pucker.

Brock works him open quickly, though not harshly; taking care to brush against his prostate every now and then as he adds a second finger, then a third. His other hand draws lines over James' chest, thumbs over first his right nipple, then his left. James is mewling with abandon though he makes sure to stay perfectly still, he won't move unless given permission, no matter how badly he wants to lean forwards so his cock trails over the soft cotton of the pillows. He's desperate for some kind of friction but he'll only take what his Sir allows him to have.

He feels Rumlow's fingers slip from his hole, and is left empty and wanting. Like there is space where he should be filled. He whines in protest and hears a deep chuckle behind him.

"Ready poppet?" Brock breathes the words against the shell of his ear, warm breath sending shivers down James' spine, and he keens high and needy. Presses back against the strong muscles of the other man's chest as he holds him upright against him, fingers trailing over Brock's abdomen where his hands are bound behind his back. The hard line of his arm is like an iron bar across James' middle, but he doesn't plan on going anywhere anyway. He needs Brock inside him, right now.

Brock must be able to sense his desperation because he takes pity on him then, lines the head of his cock up and slides home in a single thrust. He's brushed James' prostate on the first go, hours of practice James thinks dreamily, and he sees stars as Rumlow bites down carefully on the join between his shoulder and neck.

The glorious relief of a hand sliding over the swollen flesh of his cock makes James cry out as he bucks backwards against the other man, and Rumlow wastes no time before beginning to move.

He times his ministrations to James' dick with the pace he sets with his hips - and James isn't sure who comes apart more. He's a hot mess of keening need in Brock's arms, but by the noises of want and unrestrained swearing loosed against the sensitive skin of his neck James thinks the other man isn't much better off. He feels his insides tighten and tremble around Brock as those knowing hands work his own cock so carefully, the nips to the nape of his neck drawing breathy moans and gasps.

He presses backwards against Rumlow, wanting the other man as deep inside him as he can possibly be, every third stroke hitting his prostate and sending bright flashes across his vision. He hopes Brock won't last long like this, he needs to come soon else he feels like he shall just die, come apart in his arms.

He lets his head fall back against Brock's shoulder, taking strength from him as his own core trembles with the effort of keeping him upright. Rumlow noses at the shell of his ear, and nibbles at the side of his exposed neck.

"Who do you belong to, pet?" Brock's voice is smokey and deep, oozes through him like melted chocolate.

"Yours," he bites back, voice breathy because he knows Brock adores him undone like this. "Always yours Daddy, please look after me."

Brock growls then, really it's more of a snarl, but the feral want and desire of it all is like a bolt of electricity straight to James' cock. He thinks he couldn't possibly be more terrified and in awe of the other man any more than in this moment. Rumlow is all dark eyes and tan skin, he's hard lines and a firm hand and he knows exactly how to press all of James' buttons, works him like his body is a piece of intricate machinery that he knows intimately. It's heady and addictive, and James will always want more of him.

Rumlow is close now, James feels it in the way the smooth rhythm of his hips stutters, in the way fingernails bite into his sides anchoring a trembling hand, the other still stroking James but now with quick, jerking, motions. All of the smooth control and self possession now gone, Brock is just raw need.

James loves it when the other man is pushed to the limit like this, not falling but balanced along what might as well be the fine edge of a knife. There's a fire coiling in his lower belly and he wants release desperately, wants its as badly as a parched man in the desert - as though Rumlow is guarding the only liquid refreshment for miles around. All he can see, think and feel is the soft press of the other man's tanned skin - every point of contact hums like electricity runs just beneath his skin.

James trembles with want, his entrance clenching and unclenching around Rumlow, and Brock finally comes with a snarl. He feels heat and wetness spreading inside him, filling him up, as the other man spills his seed - and he whimpers with undisguised abandon. A few quick strokes with that strong, careful hand and James is falling over the edge too; his vision blinks out with flashes of white light, and he collapses back into Brock's arms with a wail of delight and relief.

\--

He feels like he doesn't quite fit right in his body for a few minutes, like he's floating up and away somewhere above the bed, and when he comes back to himself he finds himself tucked up in Rumlow's arms, the other man running a gentle hand through his damp hair. His wrists are untied now, the length of satin ribbon still clenched in one hand as a token.

"Such a good boy," Brock is whispering against the shell of his ear and James near purrs with content, nestles even closer to Rumlow's chest, pressing his face against the tanned skin that's now clammy with cooling sweat.

"Only for you, Sir.." James sighs, as Rumlow nibbles at the curve of his neck; supporting James with strong arms wrapped around his waist.

Brock stands and scoops him up in one quick motion, James' arms coming up to loop around his neck, his legs wrapped around his middle. He rests his forehead against the others shoulder as he carries him in the direction of the ensuite bathroom.

"Bath time now, baby. Let Daddy take care of you, you were so good James." James can feel the rumble of his voice against his skin where his face is pressed to Brock's throat. He hums back in agreement, nuzzling the delicate skin gently.

Rumlow sits on the side of the bathtub, James held carefully in his lap, and leans over to turn on the water. They stay like that for a few minutes - waiting for the water to reach the right temperature - then Rumlow stands and steps into the tub, bringing James down with him to sit between his bent legs, back against his chest.

"Perfect poppet," he whispers, teeth bared against James' throat, and he tilts his back to Brock's shoulder, allowing him easier access.

Rumlow doesn't take it any further though, bites down gently once and then withdraws, picking up the pretty bottle of purple chamomile body wash and squirting a generous amount onto a dampened sponge. He takes his time as he cleans James down, careful not to miss any inch of skin, and after he's finished picks up the coconut shampoo; James rumbles appreciatively that Brock knows this one is his favourite, and can't contain the breathy moan as careful hands massage his scalp as the other man rubs it into his hair.

He loves these moments after with Brock, when the other man takes his time to bring him back to himself, cares for him and makes him feel safe and appreciated. He feels sleepy with the circular motions where fingers are rubbing water into his hair, rinsing the shampoo out though the coconut smell remains, and he can't contain the yawn that slips out. Damp eyelashes flutter against his will.

Brock chuckles low in his chest behind him, and calloused fingers brush over his parted lips. "Tired, princess?" James has to fight to hold back the shiver that wants to run down his spine.

He hmphs as he shakes his head "I ain't no princess."

Brock laughs then, and his laughter always sounds like a bark to James, like it takes Rumlow himself by surprise. "Oh, are you not?" he teases, voice rough and daring.

James shakes his head but he's too tired to really protest. "Ain't. Absolute fucking Queen."

And now it's a full bodied laugh and Rumlow's standing, strong arms scooping James up out of the water with him. He allows him to stand on his own, and James leans against the marble sink as Brock first pulls on a white towelling robe of his own before wrapping the other around him. The older man tugs his hand, in control yet gentle enough, and James follows him back into the bedroom. Still damp feet sinking into plush carpet James wiggles his toes appreciatively. Brock makes quick work of removing the decorative bedspread, revealing the silk sheets beneath, and tugs James down to nestle in beside him.

He falls asleep with the other man curled around him, all hard muscle and smelling of coconuts, whispering praise against the downy hair at the nape of neck.

"Such a good boy James, always good for Daddy."

James feels the warmth spread through his body like liquid, melted chocolate. Warm, sickly sweet, and absolutely deliciously addictive.

\--

When James wakes up it can only be about an hour later, the space beside him on the bed is empty, yet the fact the spot is still warm tells him it was only recently vacated. He sighs and rolls over, stretching out on his back with a dreamy smile on his face.

He loves spending time with Brock out of all the men that seek his services at the Club; he's kind and sweet afterwards, even if he's not always as easy to please as he was today, he makes sure that James has what he needs to recover after. Even now the dull ache between his thighs is tempered by the warm bath they partook in earlier, and the chamomile shower gel that Rumlow so carefully worked into his skin is supposed to be soothing on overworked muscles.

He rolls out of bed and stretches; padding over to the bedroom door still clad in the soft white robe. He needs to get back to his dressing room and find his clothes. Part of the magic of his profession is he arrives ready to go, so to speak; unless he's putting on a show for the lucky patron they definitely don't need to see James awkwardly struggling out of jeans, boxers tangled around his ankles.

He slips across the hallway into a small well lit room; mirrors run down one side, hung above a row of white vanity tables and dressers, and on the right are a hanging rail and a black velour plush couch. He tosses the robe over the rail and pulls his jeans and tshirt on where they've been abandoned over the back of a chair, unhooking his black leather jacket from its hanger. He glances in the circle mirror nearest to him and considers whether to put his hair up or leave it down, but then, he supposes the only persons he's going to see on the way home is the taxi driver so it's not really worth the bother. He slips his feet into his Vans and grabs his black backpack on the way out of the door, stopping to artfully tousle his loose hair, parted to one side, so that it at least looks a deliberate mess.

He winks at himself in the mirror before he goes and feels laughter bubble in his throat without permission; oh he just cracks himself up sometimes.

He makes his way out through the back entrance, Brock was his last client booked for this evening and he doesn't want any of the inebriated men sat drinking in the lounge to spot him and change that. He has plans for this evening, plans that involve a pint of Ben & Jerrys and binge watching Friends reruns. The Club is relatively close to the centre of the nations capital, though you'd never know what it was from the outside - it looks like any one of the many large luxurious hotels here - and it's relatively easy for him to hail a taxi. He finds himself wondering how Brock got home, whether or not he's still there down in the private bar or members lounge, or just headed home himself without waking James to let him know he was leaving.

He's shakes his head, he really needs to stop thinking of Rumlow as anything other than a client; he knows his place, but he can't help but want more. He knows it's not love he feels for the man, but it's the closest thing to affection that he gets - and while he wants take any opportunity he can to savour that, he knows he should not under any circumstances get used to it. The others aren't nearly as nice though and sometimes Brock's kindness is the olive branch he needs to get through his day.

He's more than grateful to Pierce though, despite the rough treatment at the hands of some of the clubs members if the men get a little.. Overexcited. The Secretary of Defence runs Club Hydra with a fair hand though, and James knows anyone who treats him too harshly is duly punished, only Alexander's favourites are allowed to push the boat out, so to speak and James is more than willing to allow this given all that Pierce has done for him. After all, he is the one who offered James the position in the first place; brought him in from the cold when he was a nothing but a lonely stray on the streets of Moscow. It's Pierce who gave him a chance to return home to America, and a new life - James will spend the rest of his life in his debt.

He pays the driver and waves to the doorman of his apartment building as he opens it ready, then it's straight into pyjamas and slippers almost as soon as he's through the front door of his apartment. He grabs his pint of Fish Food and thinks about calling Natasha as he flops down onto the couch with a huff, his sister from another mister is working late tonight though and he doesn't want to bother her. Well, he does, he really does because it's Saturday night and he's already home in his pyjamas because Labour Day weekend is next weekend, and it's going to be one of the biggest Club Hydra events of the year - so he really needs to be mentally and physically ready for that. He kind of just wants to get dressed up and go out though. Rail cheap vodka shot for shot with Tasha until one of them passes the fuck out in some seedy club where the music is too loud, but the people are so beautiful he won't care.

He hauls his reluctant body upright off the couch and distracts himself by fiddling with his record player and vinyl jazz collection. You can take the boy out of Brooklyn.. He runs a thumb over the worn edges of cardboard sleeves, but he's in too indecisive a mood to settle on a single record. He's well aware that if he makes a selection whilst in this flighty state of flux he will only end up changing it mid-song.

How he ended up with a S.H.I.E.L.D agent as a best friend he will never know, because really, it would be all too easy for one of his clients to let it slip to her what he does for a living; he knows a fair few of his regulars are on a special team for them. He doesn't think he could handle the disappointment and disgust on her pretty little face if that ever happened. Would she still want to be his best friend if she knew he sucked cock for a living? There is also, of course, the fact that Nat is fairly friendly with his little sister Rebecca and really, Nat finding out? Bad times. Bec though? James would rather die.

He sighs dramatically and let's his head fall back against the arm of the couch as he throws himself back in front of the TV. Friends binge it is. And really, he is well aware that this is all a complete over reaction and of course no one is ever going to find out, because James is careful, okay? Also he works for a private members club run by pretty important government officials so he is like 99% sure they have his back on this one. Last thing any of them need is a big public scandal hitting the media.

He flicks on the TV and pulls up Friends on Netflix; he just loves Ross and Monica although Rachel with her perfect hair can just go and do one. He's not catty at all, he just thinks she ruins the brother and sister duo's dynamic. No really.

He spoons little frozen chocolate fishes in his mouth and moans around the cold metal of the spoon. Oh this right here, this is his happy place. He bites down at the part of his brain that informs him Rumlow would just love to hear him making those sounds; he is at home in his personal apartment - his private life and work should never be allowed to mix.

He sighs aggressively at himself and picks up his phone to call Becca; she's at college at NYU and he wants to just sit and listen as she regales all of the campus gossip and sordid details of her love life to distract him from the mess that is his own.


	2. In which Steve finds his feet in government

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the response from Chapter 1 was just.. Far beyond what I ever could have expected. Over two hundred hits, people bookmarking and 20 kudos within a few hours of posting T.T I love you all my filthy dumpster dwelling friends xoxo
> 
> Fun fact, the hardest part of this fic is the music. I've put so much effort into choosing tracks to write to, and already have tracks set out all the way up to chapter 30 - though they aren't added to the YouTube playlist yet (because accidental spoilers much?)
> 
> We meet Steve in this chapter; first day of work must be scary with all these badass secret agents strolling around looking dangerous. If only Steve knew just how dangerous some of them are..
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Clique (instrumental version)" - Kanye West (two fold choice, wanted cool backing music for while Steve is playing secret agent at S.H.I.E.L.D, couldn't write fic based on a meme - even if it is the HTP meme - and not include Kanye somehow. I mean, Kanye not. He is *the* meme.  
> • "The kids aren't alright" - Fall Out Boy, nightcore version 
> 
> The fic playlist can be found here:  
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

\--

Steve doesn't know what to expect when he first arrives at the Triskelion on August 29th. It's a pretty innocuous date, the fact that it's a Monday is probably the most significant thing about it and, really, contrary to the popular belief of his military buddies.. Steve hates Mondays. Also mornings, and the fact that it's still only 8am leaves Steve feeling slightly dazed, like everything going on around him is happening on the outside of an invisible bubble that he's trapped in. At least there's coffee he supposes; when he first arrived the smiling lady on the front desk had handed him his temporary security pass and helpfully pointed him in the direction of a state of the art coffee machine. He's on cup number three, and oh my god, what was the point in having him come in so early if they were just going to keep him waiting?! He wonders if this is perhaps some kind of new torture and interrogation technique, if they are just using him as a test subject.. It's working. 

It will forever be Steve's longstanding belief that it's entirely due to S.H.I.E.L.D.S new sleep deprivation torture technique that when Nicholas Fury first meets one Steven Grant Rogers the latter is halfway out of his chair towards the floor, coffee cup about to slip from his fingers where he's dozed off. 

Fury can only raise an eyebrow and wonder if this is really the man the military were supposed to be sending him, or if there has been some kind of terrible mixup. He clears his throat and is rewarded with the sight of a flustered Steve Rogers snapping awake, and jumping out of the chair to his feet - hastily saluting with said coffee cup. 

It's confirmed Nick thinks, trying not to roll his eye. He wonders if the old farts at the DoD do this to him on purpose; first Barton, now this guy..

He'll put him on Stark wrangling duty he decides; Nick can think of no worse a punishment. 

\--

Steve is fairly bright eyed in awe as he walks the halls of the Triskelion in Director Fury's wake; the man's black trench coat billows behind him as he walks, and Steve can't help but wonder if he only wears it for dramatic effect. 

Fury leads him through a maze of corridors to a massive gymnasium that's empty aside from the assortment of equipment; he wonders if he'll actually be able to find his way back out of here at the end of his working day, or if this has suddenly turned into an impromptu hostage situation. The room rather resembles an aircraft hanger in size and covers two levels - he can see the observation room fronted with glass panels high above them. 

Fury gestures with one arm towards the open space; "I was told you are the best the military had to offer me; practically superhuman strength and speed, you heal fast, and have a frankly unreasonable sense of justice."

Steve has to fight to restrain the upturn at the corner of his lips. "Were you now?" He cocks his head slightly to one side, watching Fury appraisingly.

Fury nods, "yes, and I know you were briefed as to why we want you here. We have a number of elite teams that run out of this facility, Captain Rogers, as I am sure you are aware."

Fury's gaze is almost intimidating in its intensity, but Steve has never backed down from a challenge yet; he sets his jaw and nods, arms crossed over a muscled chest.

Fury gives him a nod then, and Steve can't help but feel he's passed some kind of test he wasn't aware he was sitting. 

"The Avengers, Captain Rogers, is the future of the United States first line of defence."

He walks away from Steve towards the centre of the room, gesturing around him and Steve struggled to contain his surprise at the sudden thud of falling cables, and first one, then two, three, four black clad figures drop down rappelling from catwalks high above. All of his training and he hadn't even known they were there. 

"Our S.T.R.I.K.E teams here operate in the dark, Captain Rogers; Alpha - tactical assault, Beta - the tech and spec ops team whom nobody ever gets to meet, Gamma - air assault, and Delta - infiltration. Unfortunately, public opinion, and the World Security Council seems to agree, is that it is time to leave the shadows behind us."

The four Agents arranged in a semi-circle behind Fury are relaxed and at ease, and Steve tries to force his own heart beat to slow. 

"The Avengers are to be the new face of American national security Captain. Think of it as like a football squad of highly trained operatives." Fury is still watching him with the same piercing look, and Steve feels like he's on trial. 

He blinks, long and slow, and gives the intimidating man in front of him a hard look;  
"And what, exactly, are they going to be distracting the public from Director Fury..?" He can't help it, the snark just slips out. But really, come on, a celebrity spec-ops team? They might as well just put them in tights and call them super heroes. Obviously the Avengers Initiative is a flashy show to distract the public from whatever's going on behind the scenes. He suddenly isn't sure whether he should have let Fury know he realises that. 

One of the agents to Fury's left is smiling though, and he counts that as a small victory; even if she is decidedly dangerous looking. Gaze flat and body poised even as she tries to appear relaxed. She reminds him of a cobra.

Fury gestures towards the agents moving around the circle right to left "Commander Rumlow, he heads the STRIKE program itself and is Team Lead of Alpha, Agent Rollins, his right hand man. Agents Barton and Romanoff are Team Delta and will be reassigned to the Avengers Initiative." 

Steve nods politely to each of them in turn, uncomfortable under the weight of the assessing looks thrown his way. They must approve though, as first Rumlow then the others in turn step up to shake his hand. Romanoff has the strongest grip and Steve finds he's not at all surprised by that - she carries the quietly confident countenance of someone that could kill you with their pinkie finger without breaking a sweat.

Fury looks pleased about something observing their interactions, and it sets Steve's nerves on edge. He shrugs it off and turns his gaze back to Fury.

"Who else is being assigned to the Initiative?" Steve figures he'll just have to fake it until he makes it. 

"We have a consultant who will join the team on occasion, his name is Stark. As of yet, the other positions remain undecided. We have a shortlist of considerations, and as you will be running point as Team Lead of the Avengers your input will be considered when narrowing that down."

Steve nods in acquiescence and Fury seems satisfied. 

"You will train with Rumlow and Romanoff for today, Rollins and Barton are needed elsewhere. I shouldn't need to tell you Rogers, but there are cameras covering every inch of this room and the observation level is freely accessible. We want to see what you can do Captain. This is your chance to put on a good show."

And, okay, Steve can deal with that; he's not comfortable with the posturing and clumsy demonstrations of power here, politics has never been his strong point. Combat and sparring though? Now that is something he knows, something he is comfortable with. He's secure in the knowledge that he can show these two agents what he's made of. 

\--

He was wrong. Very wrong. When they break he follows Agent Romanoff to the canteen, trying to be as subtle as possible about the arm he has wrapped around his stomach. He feels like he's holding his guts in and doesn't dare move it for a second incase they come tumbling out over the shiny metal of the corridor floor. 

Steve focuses on the bounce of her fiery red hair ahead of him, and allows his footsteps to become automatic as he retreats to the privacy of his thoughts. Romanoff is.. Something else. Rumlow, now he is good for sure, but he is not 'Steve good'. He can see why the older man is heading STRIKE though; he may not be as fast or strong as Steve, but he has a head for combat - and stress and adrenaline don't seem to affect the quality of his decision making. Steve is willing to bet that the Commander is the one who makes the tactical decisions. 

The red-head though? Steve isn't sure if she is actually human. She's too much, he can't explain it any other way. Just too.. Everything. She's too fast, both in speed of movement and reflex actions, too strong for her size and muscular structure, she's too analytical - Steve could swear she knows what they're all thinking. If there was such thing as a human predator, cold, calculating and deadly, it would be Agent Romanoff. 

Every movement is sharp, precise and efficient. Like she is aware of, and has perfect control over, every single muscle in her body at all times. She's a whirling flurry of jabs, kicks and flips - it makes her near impossible to pin, and Steve thinks her movements remind him more of a ballet dancer or a gymnast than a government agent. 

He nearly bumps into her where she has stopped in front of him, and she turns her head back towards him, one eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth tilted up in a smirk. "Negligence will get you killed, Rogers. Pay attention to your surroundings."

He shrugs, letting a slightly goofy grin spread over his face. "I figure I'm in safe hands with you around. Do you know when the people five buildings over breathe too?"

He gets raised eyebrows and a smile for that, just a small quirk of the lips but it's okay, he saw it. 

"I didn't expect you to have a sense of humour." She nods in his direction, eyes flashing a challenge. 

"Pleasantly surprised, I hope?" He grins, he's never understood why people are so determined to think of him as a goody goody. "Thought I looked like the straight up military yes-man that gets his panties in a twist over the unorthodox?" He may look like the all-American poster boy you invite over for dinner with your ma, but appearances can be deceiving. And he thinks, she should know that better than anyone.

She must read something to that effect on his face because she's smiling properly now, gives him a nod and a cautious "We'll see. You haven't met Stark and Clint yet, I'll hold off judgement about your panties until afterwards." She walks through the double doors of the cafeteria and leaves him stood there gawping after her like an idiot; trying to work out if he should be worried, and wondering who exactly Clint is.

He shakes it off and follows her in, she's already stood in a line with a plastic tray in hand talking to a man slightly shorter than himself with dirty blonde hair. Steve makes his way over to the two of them and gets a nod from the other man he recognises from Fury's little demo this morning.

"Agent Barton?" He smiles and offers his hand to other man, is taken by surprised when he gets a shit-eating grin and a fist bump in response. 

"Captain Rogers. My names Clint, or you know, Hawkeye. I don't really mind." 

Steve wonders why Romanoff thought he and the affable agent might not get on; he certainly seems friendly enough. He gives him a questioning look; "Hawkeye?" 

The wide smile is back; "Codename. We'll be doing weapons training together tomorrow, you'll figure it out then."

Steve hums in acceptance. "I'm Steve, none of this Captain Rogers bullshit. Else I'll start calling you Captain Sparrow." 

Clint's eyes go slightly wide and he looks like he's trying to contain laughter. Steve narrows his eyes. "What..?"

The other blonde is shaking his head, bent over slightly now with his hands on his thighs. "nothing, nothing.. Just, we heard you were like.. Some kind of paradigm of American justice and goodness and then you turn out to be a snarky asshole with a potty mouth."

Steve smirks back at him; "either someone here has a sense of humour, or that's the American propaganda machine at its finest."

Clint nods, shoulders still shaking. "That or one of the higher ups has a bit of a man-crush. I bet it's Coulson."

Steve can't help the laugh that escapes from his throat. He tries to contain himself a little because they're nearly at the front of the queue now, and both the serving ladies and the other agents are eyeing him a little strangely. They pay no mind to Clint though, he observes, and concludes this must be default behaviour for him. 

He keeps a straight face as he drops his tray on the metal counter, politely asks the woman serving him for some kind of stew and potatoes. He keeps his voice low and murmurs from the corner of his mouth;

"I think that just presents a marvellous opportunity to show them how negligence is an awful oversight."

Clint looks at him in wide-eyed wonder. "Thats.. Natasha.." Clint is doing a rather good fish impression, pulls himself together; "I think we're going to be very good friends, oh star spangled man with a plan."

Steve grins as he thanks the lady and takes his food. He thinks he'll enjoy working here - especially with Romanoff, or, "Natasha" Clint had called her, and Clint himself.

\--

After lunch he follows the other two agents back towards the gymnasium, Clint waving to them when the corridor splits to the left and right. From what Steve saw earlier the firing range is off to the left and he finds he's looking forwards to shooting with Clint tomorrow. He hasn't fired a weapon in a while.. He thinks now, if ever, is the time to put the past behind him and prove to himself that that his honourable discharge is just a bit of paper. It doesn't need to hold the weight over him that it currently does. "Not fit for active service..", "Psychological trauma..".. Fuck them, fuck them all. Steve can do this.

They arrive at the gymnasium and he slips through the double doors, pauses when he finds the room already occupied; another, smaller, figure lounging off to the side of the hall atop a pile of crash mats. Steve notices he's wearing what looks like a three piece suit and wonders what on earth he's doing down here. Natasha rolls her eyes and pushes on past him into the room though, so Steve figures she obviously knows this man. 

"Stark." She greets, mouth set in a line and face blank. 

Ah, Steve nods. His other future Avenger. Or, consultant anyway. He can't help but feel a sense of trepidation given how Natasha has greeted the other man; none of the small reluctant half-smiles she's been throwing his way all day, or the long-suffering sighs of obvious friendship she directed at Clint. 

Steve wanders over to where the man is still sprawled on his back, only his head raised to watch his approach, and Steve really wants to roll his eyes at the fact the man is wearing sun glasses. Inside. With the fluorescent over head lighting switched off so the room is half dark.

"Cap." Stark takes the proffered hand and shakes it loosely.

"Stark." Steve raises an eyebrow at him and the smaller man sighs like Steve is the one being awkward here, and drags himself upright. He's dangling his legs off of the crash mats, kicking them back and forth slightly, as he watches Steve appraisingly.

Steve reminds himself that he isn't going to prejudge anybody here; after all, he's had that lesson more than once today including about what people expect of himself, but he's struggling really hard right now to resist the urge to roll his eyes and walk away. Ignore the other man entirely. 

Not that Steve thinks he'd mind, he's taken to staring vaguely over Steve's shoulder as his fingers tap out half a rhythm on the solid surface of the mats he's resting on. 

"Are you here for anything in particular, or..?" 

Stark jumps, seeming to snap out of whatever daydream he'd been lost in. 

"No, no. Fury said you were down here. Thought I'd come check you out for myself. See whether you were worth all the hype, so to speak."

Steve quirks an eyebrow; looking over Stark's face he's unable to get a read on the other man's thoughts, though he thinks Natasha would probably have no problem.

"And..?"

Stark shrugs, giving him a disinterested glance; "no different to any of the other meat heads around here from what I can see. Nothing obviously special. All of you ex spec ops military types are the same, more brawn than brain."

Steve has to hold in his growl, he knows Stark's throwing out bait here, and he refuses to rise to it. He looks Stark over disinterestedly, keeping his stance relaxed, hands clasped behind his back in rest position.

"And what, exactly, makes you special? I mean, you're quite obviously not an agent, you're trained in boxing at most I'd say from your build, and you're obviously not the sharpest tack in the box - given your decision to assess another persons intelligence before even having a conversation with them.."

Stark makes a kind of choked indignant sound in his throat, sitting suddenly bolt upright and flipping his sunglasses back off his forehead. His eyes are a dark brown, but they flash bright with anger even in the dim lighting. Steve wants to know what his play is here, Stark was definitely baiting him, but why? His thoughts are interrupted;

"What makes me special?! How about genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist who's literally shaping the century..?"

Steve shrugs, "genius? Nah you're just some pompous guy with an ego who thinks he's better than everyone else. I mean, even your frank assessment of my intelligence.. What's the scientific method again? Test a hypothesis, note observations, gather empirical data?"

The smaller man is glaring at him now, shoulders shaking with barely contained anger he looks like he's about to jump on Steve and punch him in the face or something. Good.

" I mean.. Supposed genius who didn't even bother to have a conversation with someone before declaring his own theory fact..?" Steve shrugs dismissively, turns to walk away and shoots back over his shoulder; "sounds to me like someone believes a little bit too much in his own publicity."

He's actually half expecting the punch aimed at the back of his head as Stark flings himself off the top of the heap of crash mats, landing on Steve's back in a gross approximation of a kid getting a piggy back ride. Steve thinks the size difference between the two men only makes that comparison more apt.

He wastes no time in leaning forwards and toppling the other man over his shoulder to the floor, pinning him there and waiting for him to stop struggling. Stark is trying desperately to push him off or writhe away, but he has none of the cold sharp elegance of Natasha who's about as easy to get ahold of as running water. He's aware of her curious gaze from over by the door, she's made no move towards them though and Steve thinks if she's content to just wait it out he can do the same; it's no effort really on his part, he'll sit here unmoving as long as is necessary. 

After approximately five minutes Steve feels the change, watches the frown on Stark's forehead melt away, lines disappearing, and notices how his body goes lax where he has him trapped beneath his torso. 

"Release me Captain Asshole." Steve doesn't move. 

Stark lets his head fall back against the gymnasium floor with a dull thunk. "Okay, sorry 'Captain Rogers', please can you let me up now? This is a $5000 suit."

Steve looks down at him, maintains eye contact until Stark ducks away first.

"You jumped me, not my problem. Sorry for what?" His voice is commanding but quiet.

Stark lets out a strangled grown and shakes his head as best he can whilst laying down, pouts up at him; " Sorry for being a douchebag? And I am, sorry I mean. You could have fought back but you didn't. I didn't think.."

Steve cuts of the other man's run on sentences with a smile, he gets the impression that the brunette could go on for quite some time if no one stopped him. Like he has too many words to fit in his head, and they're just waiting for him to open his mouth so they can all come spilling out. 

"Forgiven. And I'm sorry too, I don't know you, you probably are quite special if you've been chosen for this team. I had a point to prove."

Something lights up in Stark's eyes, Steve isn't sure what it is but the other man looks.. Happy. Which is strange considering their current predicament, in which Stark is pinned to the ground by 200lbs of special forces operative.

Steve rolls away and stands up, offering Stark his hand when he notices just how crumpled and wrung out the other man looks. He takes it gratefully and Steve hauls him upright, watches as he does the best to smooth out the creases in his suit. 

"So, what does make you special Mr Stark..?" Steve keeps his tone light, makes it clear its not a barb, even as he stands with his arms crossed over a well muscled chest, eyebrows drawn in curiosity. 

A slightly pained look flashes across Stark's face; "Tony." He ignores Steve's now raised eyebrow, "Mr Stark was my father. My name is Tony."

Steve shrugs, okay, so daddy issues and judging by his reaction to 'Mr Stark', probably inferiority issues too. Huh, explains a lot.

Tony has a near manic glint in his eyes now, even in the dim lighting of the gym Steve can see his face is more animated, and he waves his arms around as he speaks.

"As for what makes me special Cap, do you think Fury would let you off the leash one day this week? I'll give you a demo if you swing by Stark Industries DC headquarters."

Steve looks over to Natasha, who's now regarding them with a look of what Steve would swear is surprise, aside from her usual indifference. She nods; "you have weapons training tomorrow with Clint, and Wednesday a practice op is scheduled for the three of us with Rumlow, where you two will work on tactics. Thursday should be fine, I'll mention it to Fury."

Steve looks back at Tony and smiles, "I think I can manage that."

He's curious now, he's heard of Stark Industries of course, they used to make all of the weapons he used as spec ops, and he knows they also make consumer electronics. If Tony is the man behind all that? Definitely special then, but it doesn't explain what he is doing here.. S.T.R.I.K.E Team Beta specialises in technological warfare, he hasn't met them but he's heard mention of a 'Sitwell', he doubts they'd need the Avengers for something like that. Maybe Tony is just going to be designing weapons for them and that's why he's a 'consultant'?"

Tony Stark smiles, and it's not like Clint's, it's more like Natasha's to be honest; Steve gets the impression that like her Tony knows more than he will ever let on, and can be dangerous when he wants to be. 

"See you then Cap." He strides out of the room, mock salutes back over his shoulder, before he pushes through the double doors. They're left swinging behind him.

Steve turns to Natasha who's regarding him a look of interest; "He seems.."

Natasha shakes her head; "He's impossible, it's why he's a consultant a not a full time member of the initiative; I have no idea how you did that Rogers, but I think you now have a pet Stark. I'll let Fury know."

Steve is going to reply but he's interrupted when Rumlow lands back in the gym at that moment, whistling as he pushes through the doors, hands wrapped ready for the sand bags and carrying another set of wraps for Steve. He stops and looks at them, regarding them with a look of disbelief; "Romanoff what happened to 'no longer operating in the shadows..?'" He rolls his eyes and flicks the gymnasiums overhead lights on. "I mean, I know you're a creepy super assassin but, please, let's not corrupt Rogers here mm'kay?" 

Steve barks out a laugh, noticing just how dark it must have been in the cavernous room now that the lights are actually on. His mind pauses on 'Super assassin' though, and he files that one away for later; so maybe that's what Fury meant by 'infiltration' he thinks. He somehow can't picture Clint Barton as an assassin, the blonde reminds him more of the class clown than someone out to break your neck. Steve think perhaps that makes him more dangerous. 

\--

Steve is grateful when Rumlow calls time on their session and he's allowed to head home. As far as first days go.. he can't help but wonder if everybody is subjected to this, and how many don't come back for a second day. It's not that it's been particularly strenuous; in fact, as far as special ops training goes it's been quite easy in terms of physical exercise. Mentally though, he's exhausted. 

He's glad that he likes all of the people he'll be working with though, it's bad for team cohesion when members of a unit dislike or distrust each other, and he thinks he might have to watch Natasha and Tony in that regard. It's an added bonus that he gets on well with Rumlow too - as Commander of the STRIKE teams and Captain of the Avengers the older man and he will probably have to work quite closely, even if the units are kept separate. 

He decides to just shower at home, and heads down to the garage level where he parked his bike this morning. He heads up the ramp and when he sees the beautiful colours splashed across the sky in front of him he has to stop and check his watch, dang 19:45 already, antisocial work hours much? There's something about the streets of Washington DC at sunset though, so he doesn't mind too much - the colours lighting the horizon in reds and golds are a beautiful backdrop against the city skyline, and as the wind brushes past him through his unzipped leather jacket he finds his centre.

He strips down and heads for the shower as soon as he's through the front door, sliding a pre made lasagna into the oven on his way past the kitchen. 

He has at least half an hour until his foods ready and spends that long in the shower, hot water beating down on him from above as he sags back against the cool tiles, tracing his finger over the lines in the mosaic of blues and turquoises. Today has been both good and bad; he thinks he's going to get on well with his new team, he has a secure job and a good position with an organisation that don't care about his discharge. But, he can't help the thoughts that swirl at the back of his mind - the ones that say "you don't deserve this", "it should have been you, not them". He dunks his head under the spray and let's the water drown out the sound of screaming inside his head. 

When he finally emerges from the shower with a towel wrapped round his waist he doesn't bother to redress, the evening is cool but not cold. It's the tail end of summer, and the nights are still warm enough. He eats quickly and heads straight to bed; tucking the covers up over his head he falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, in that way only military men can.


	3. In which labour day weekend is only made sweeter by the fruits of James' labours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was absolutely my favourite chapter to write so far because I mean, come on, it's an actual Hydra Party. Plenty of scope to have a little fun with our favourite toy, non?
> 
> I probably won't be able to keep posting once a day, but gosh dang I want to try. This chapter is comprised of two parts, pre-labour day weekend, and the party itself. Two chapters for the price of one really.
> 
> The music is kinda important in this chapter, especially part two. 
> 
> Part 1 Playlist:  
> • "Cooler than me" - Mike Posner  
> • "Trouble" - Metronomy (taken from the actual Dolcezza August mixtape from last summer: http://dolcezzagelato.com/august2015mixtape/ some great choices there, worth a listen)  
> • "Good People" - Great Big Ocean (because the lyrics omg, "good people aren't hard to find, right around the corner at the end of a line")
> 
> Part 2 Playlist:  
> • "Working for the weekend" - Loverboy  
> • "Ooh la la" - Goldfrapp  
> • "Music to watch boys to" - Lana del Rey  
> • "S&M" - Rihanna  
> • "Where you belong" - The Weekend
> 
> Helpful playlist here:  
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

\--  
"Je veux vous détruire dans tous les meilleurs moyens..."

\--  
Part 1  
\--

The week before Labour Day weekend goes by fairly quickly for James; he only sees a few of his regular clients, but otherwise his calendar is pretty free. Monday is some U.S senator or other and an evening play session with Pierce that doesn't involve any actual sexual contact, he just likes James curled up at his feet while he works. Tuesday is Brock's evening session, it's the same day every week, and James knows it's because he has weapons training all day on Tuesday; something about handling all that cool ionised metal and the smell of gunpowder wakes something feral in his favourite john.

James understands, he used to feel the same way after a mission or a practice session with his sniper rifle. The power held between two hands, master of life and death, the long wait, the intense control needed for such precision.. The shots fired between beats of his own heart. Yeah, James understands why Rumlow is a little wilder on Tuesdays.

Wednesday is Rollins; he's never as gentle as Brock is, but he's also never as harsh. Treads such a fine line in between that James can almost convince himself that the man isn't slightly sociopathic, that he holds back when the pain could be so much worse because he cares about how James feels during their sessions.

In reality, James knows Jack is probably as unrestrained as he's allowed to be - that he isn't Pierce's favourite the way Rumlow is. That the reason he's so careful to offer caresses and touches between bouts of sweet torture is because he likes to keep James on his toes and confused. That Rollins gets off on that carefully bemused look James has crafted especially for him; the one that says "I don't know if you love me or are here to make me suffer." James gets off on it too. He doesn't like the nipple clamps that Jack loves though; he favours these serrated ones that hurt and cut James' tender skin.

Thursday he doesn't have anything booked in all day, which is both unusual and fairly normal for pre-labour weekend; everyone in the city will be attending work functions and parties tonight, so as to keep the weekend free for their families and close friends. He calls Natasha as soon as he wakes up.

"James." She sounds relaxed which is good, she must not be at work already; he's bored and she is such good entertainment.

"My lovely Natalia, how are you gorgeous?" He drops onto the sofa and kicks his legs over the arm.

"You want something. I've told you a thousand times that flattery will get you nowhere 'princess'." He hears the snark in her voice, knows that she's just teasing him.

"Shut uppp." He bites back, "I ain't a princess. For one thing, princesses are all goody goody gems of charm. I'm like.. Like an evil Queen. Like in Alice in wonderland."

She stifles a laugh but he hears the smile in her voice. "An evil queen, huh? Well, you certainly got one part of that right.."

He scoffs, "Well, oh Queen of my heart, the Red Queen dictates that if you don't come hang out with me today it'll be off with your head."

She laughs aloud then, and he can't help but smile back. Natasha is like his soul sister or something.

"Don't you have class today James?" And okay, yeah, maybe he does, it's how he spends his time when he's not working, but it's just a cover. It's not like he's a 28 year old military vet attending college for the fun of it, though he does enjoy his classes.

"Mmm yeah, but it's just a lecture and completely non essential.." He adds a hint of begging into his voice, he knows Natasha is his enabler. His sister would tell him off for skipping class but Natasha likes to break the rules.

"Fine, I'm not needed at HQ today anyway." He hears the faux-resignation in her voice, knows she's smiling too.

He lets out a victorious whoop and fist punches the air. "Not that I particularly care for the whys, my deadly princess, but how will they possibly manage without you for an entire day?"

She laughs, sharp and cold; "Clint is otherwise occupied and the new guy is babysitting Stark over at SI."

James makes a sympathetic oof sound before Nat shushes him; "no, don't feel sorry for him, I think Stark likes him. He's made a friend."

James hears the disgust in her voice and winces. "I take it your new Team Lead and you are not going to get along well then..?"

She pauses for a second, and when she replies he hears the surprise in her voice; "that's the strangest thing James, Rogers is a good guy. Snarky asshole, Clint's new 'bestest buddy', but he's proficient. Stark should hate him."

James can't help but laugh, "guess you guys have got yourselves a new Stark wrangler then.. How long will you be? I really need to shower."

She hmms thoughtfully, "give me half an hour, we can do breakfast downtown."

He makes a sound of approval; "Dolcezza? Gelato and coffee is always acceptable breakfast food."

He almost hears her roll her eyes but she hums her approval and he hangs up with a "love you, see you in 20." He knows she'll be early, she always is.

He showers and dresses as quickly as he can, grabbing his wallet and keys on the way out of the door and stuffing them in a small leather backpack that he slings over his shoulder. It is not a man bag, it has studs and shit. It's entirely cool.

True to her nature, Natasha pulls up outside exactly 20 minutes after he hung up and James is sat on the stoop waiting. He seriously starts to rethink his career choices at the sight of her blacked out Corvette Stingray. He loves that car possibly more than she does.

"Hello baby," he greets it, cooing and stroking the wing mirror lovingly.

Natasha rolls her eyes at him from the drivers seat; "get in loser."

He grins back and opens the door, sliding into the passenger seat and switching to a pout. "Loser? Don't be mean to me Talia.."

She punches him in the shoulder, stronger than her frame has any right to be. "Stop whining."

He bites back a "never" with a wicked smirk; only the corner of his mouth tilted up, and blue eyes flashing.

She ignores him and keeps her eyes on the road as she weaves through DC traffic, but he knows she's fighting back a grin. Oh yeah, he's awesome. Not even Natasha Romanoff is immune to his incredible sense of humour.

They park in a multi storey and head straight to Dolcezza which is basically James' spiritual home. Proper coffee and gelato is the ultimate combination in his opinion. Even for breakfast, in fact, especially for breakfast this time of year. Summer is winding to a close in DC and the weather is all hot and humid, which does terrible things to his hair that he's had to tie up in a bun, and his black tshirt and black skinny jeans combo may not have been the best choice in all honesty. His shirt is already starting to stick to his back. He wrinkles his nose a little. Ew.

\--

The bell chimes as they enter, and James makes a beeline for the table underneath the air-con which is miraculously unoccupied. He feels the cool air wash over him and closes his eyes as he tilts back in his chair, mmm that's nice.

They both get flat white coffees and pistachio gelato, and James moans appreciatively with every mouthful; ignoring both the glare Nat sends his way and when she kicks his shin underneath the table. Can she not let him have this moment? This right here is heaven on earth.

He sighs over dramatically and sits upright, jabbing his spoon in her direction across the table. "You woman, are cruel."

She raises a single elegant red eyebrow in reply and James smiles; "Okay, I admit I'm a pest, you love me anyway."

An eye roll, but James knows he's winning.

"So, I actually hate to tell you this babydoll, but I'm not going to be able to come hang with you and Clint this weekend." He gives her an apologetic look but she just shrugs.

"Clint will miss his barbecue buddy, but.. I'm Russian. What do I care for American holidays?"

He laughs and nods, that's.. A very good point actually. Natasha is a Russian stray too, she just works for a very different kind of government group to him. It's how they became friends in the first place; two years ago when he first arrived back in America he kept on running into her on a regular basis in.. Unusual places. Like the tops of buildings, and the hideyhole underneath the buttressing near the ceiling of his local Orthodox Church.

Long sleepless nights drinking tea and speaking Russian led to a two year long friendship that feels like it spans decades, not months.

"Very true Солнышко," he smiles, stealing a bite of her gelato with a swipe of his spoon because he's finished his own. She bats his hand away when he goes back for seconds.

"I am curious as to why though..?" She gives him a calculating look and he flushes under the gaze.

"I've been seeing this guy.. He and his family are having a party out of town."

It's not exactly a lie; Brock will be there and Club Hydra is almost a creepy cultish kind of family, there's certainly enough bonds of brotherhood and love to call it family.

Her green eyes light up and she leans forwards, resting her chin in her palms, elbows on the table. "Oh please, do tell.."

She wants all kinds of sordid details about this new imaginary boy toy and James is reluctant to hand over any incase he forgets them later on. It's how he's kept this part of his life hidden as long as he has; as far as Natka is concerned James is just a fabulously flamboyant and sassy History of Art student at Georgetown - one who likes skipping class, sleeping in, and weekends spent with her drinking vodka in dive bars and dancing with beautiful strangers. Okay, so she knows as much that he's ex-spec ops, has an honourable discharge under his belt, and for some reason spent far too long living in Moscow. Other than that, completely normal guy.

He winks at her "I will regale all sordid details as soon as I'm back.." Ooh the promise of full disclosure of a weekend of debauchery should get her off his tail. "In the meantime, I have nothing to wear and I want to look like sex on legs.."

She laughs, soft and easy, and pushes her chair back. "We better get to it then," she looks him over with a careful eye, "there's clearly a lot of work to do."

He scoffs, but follows her back out into the sunshine anyway. He is already sexy as fuck, thank you very much Natasha.

\--

It takes five hours before James is satisfied with what he's found, and it's only when he's trying on a pair of black leather pants in Guess, whilst Natasha sprawls over the seating that's supposed to be there for distressed males whilst their girlfriends shop, that he decides he's subjected her to enough for one day. Natasha has a keen eyes for fashion, and for dressing him in particular, but she's efficient in everything she does and that includes shopping. Need a pair of black leather trousers? A quick google shop search and she has a hand picked list of what nearby stores have what. James on the other hand thinks half of the magic is wandering around brightly lit stores and boutiques, trailing his hand over the different fabrics and textures of the garments on display.

He likes the way his ass looks in the trousers though, even if Natasha was the one to find them, so he quickly adds them to his pile of goody bags. He already has a pair of dark red chinos and a collarless white linen shirt for the day party, but he wants to look extra special for the nights events. He's taken the liberty of ordering some things online already, but the skintight leather pants and the mesh shirt that oscillates between green, navy and black are welcome additions.

He wants to look good this weekend, dress to impress so to speak. He won't be the only working boy from the Club at the event, but he knows as Pierce's little star he's definitely going to be the main event. He isn't too friendly with any of the other gals or guys, they don't like the fact he's the secretary's favourite or that he gets preferential treatment, but James couldn't bring himself to care less to be perfectly honest. If he were a bird he'd be preening right about now.

She rolls to her feet as he gathers up his shopping bags, and gives him what on anyone else would be a beseeching look; "Are you finally done..?"

He laughs and shakes his head at her. "Yes, I think so. It's nearly five o'clock, want to go get burgers for dinner and spend all evening playing trashy video games with me?"

"Or we can get a bottle of vodka, make пельме́ни, and sing stupid Russian drinking songs until one of us passes out?"

James can't contain his laughter, swinging his shopping bags as they walk back towards the car park. "I like your plan much better. Make it two bottles and we'll call Clint over when he's finished for the day."

Natasha insists on stopping twice on the way back to his apartment; once to get the groceries for the 'pelmeni' and vodka, and once as she drags him protesting and complaining into a hair salon.

"You want to impress him, don't you?" She speaks low and quietly in his ear as she forces him into an unoccupied seat, and he sighs and relaxes, because okay yeah he does. He can admit that much.

She's talking to the girl stood behind him, a petite blonde in a black shift with her hair tied up, and gesturing. James feels left out of the loop a little, but he trusts Natasha with his appearance well enough to not question her.

The blonde is nodding at whatever Natasha was saying and James resigns himself to the process, doesn't complain as he's dragged first to the sink to get his hair shampooed, then back to the chair by the mirror.

She's careful when she picks up the scissors, Natasha must have asked for something very specific, and as it takes place in front of him he finds he's quite pleased with the results. It's parted slightly to the left rather than the centre, and choppier around the front; she doesn't take too much off the length, just enough so it now barely brushes his shoulders, but adds layers so it curls a little.

Natasha nods approvingly when its finished and James hates to admit it, really hates to admit it, but she might just have been right and it does look a lot better. That doesn't mean he isn't going to be a whiny bitch for at least the next hour in retribution.

When they finally crash through his front door, bags of clothes and groceries in hand, he is absolutely starving and faux-swoons, demanding they set to work immediately on the pelmeni because otherwise he might just waste away and starve to death. Natasha gives him a look of such disdain he can't help but laugh, but she follows him to the kitchen with the other grocery bags anyway so he's definitely winning. He sends off a sneaky snapchat to Becca after he managed to dump a cup of flour over Nat's head without her seeing him coming. He gets one back within minutes captioned "are you still alive..?" and he can't reply because he's trapped on the floor in a choke hold.

Clint shows up half an hour later and they spend the evening drinking vodka and eating small pastry parcels of ground meat and onion until the sun begins to creep over the horizon. All three of them pile onto James' double bed, and you'd be hard pressed to wipe the smile off of his face as he falls asleep with his face pressed against Natasha's back, Clint awkwardly sprawled across both of them. This right here, this is family.

\--  
Part 2  
\--

James mingles. It's the only word for it really; the lawn of the green is covered with little tables and chairs and hundreds of people, some are Club Hydra members, some aren't, all of them are people of importance. He's spoken to senators, ambassadors, heads of industry, military officials and numerous government higher ups so far today. As far as anyone who isn't a member of the Club is concerned, James is the Defence Secretary's intern, and an ex-special forces college student.

He doesn't mind playing the role, some of the people he's met so far have been pretty interesting, and the food has been wonderful. There's a big white marquee off to the left hand side, and James wanders over to fetch another drink, stopping to greet the senator he was with on Monday as he passes. The man is stood with whom James presumes is his wife, a fine boned woman in a belted white sundress printed with small purple flowers. He doesn't miss the fact that the woman looks a little like himself, pretty blue eyes and long dark hair; he watches the uncomfortable expression on the other man's face as they greet each other. The man's small beady eyes darting between James and his wife. James only nods politely, and continues on his way in search of alcohol; he's only had one glass of a sparkling rosé so far, but with the afternoon drawing steadily towards evening he's going to need at least a few more to bolster his confidence for the nights activities.

He's intercepted by Rumlow at the drinks table, the other man taking James' crystal glass from his hand and pouring the wine for him. When he hands it back his fingers brush deliberately against James' own and he has to restrain the shiver that darts down his spine. Brock wets his lips before speaking and James' eyes carefully track the movement of that pink tongue.

"Enjoying yourself..?" Rumlow looks relaxed as he leans against the trestle table behind him, languid loose lines beneath his pressed chinos and unbuttoned white linen blazer, his soft navy t-shirt leaving little to the imagination. The contrast with his olive skin and black hair is like art, and James wants to reach out and touch. He restrains himself and gives him a relaxed nod, smile quirking the corners of his lips.

"Of course.. Daddy." Brock maintains his loose posture but James knows it's an act, knows that Rumlow's entire body is poised like a jungle cat.

His dark eyes gleam and he pushes away from the table; as he slinks in front of James towards the entrance of the marquee he pauses for a second, trailing a hand up James' chest to play with the tags that rest in the hollow between his collar bones. "Tonight can't come soon enough.."

And James knows that Brock's body is shielding them from view, but he can't help the adrenaline rush that comes with being intimate in public; he knows his own pupils are dilated, making his eyes as dark as Rumlow's own. He grins wickedly; "should be quite the show.."

When Rumlow smiles it's not one of happiness or desire, it's something dark and dangerous, almost reptilian. "We'll see."

And then he's gone, sweeping out of the tent, and James hurries outside too because it feels like the temperature just rose a couple of degrees in there.

\--  
  
The room hidden behind the folds of red velvet curtains is filled; the muffled voices and sounds of bodies jostling together tell him that much. He feels a stirring in the pit of his stomach and is relieved to find that its excitement and not nerves; he's ready for this, been preparing for this for months.

He shuffles on the spot impatiently and is rewarded with the click of his red and gold glittery platform booties on the wooden floor. He ordered them online a few weeks ago and they are as gorgeous as he imagined, they'll look fantastic under the lights too.

A nod from the man stood off to his left and the music starts, James pushes through the curtains and struts across the stage, arms raised above his head, basking in the appreciative whistles and cheers. In just black leather hot pants and his red boots, James looks like a repressed homosexual in a position of power's wet dream; the audience are just going to love him.

He heads straight for the pole in the middle of the stage.

He lets himself block out the sounds of everyone else in the room, focuses only on the cool metal between his hands and thighs and the routine that he's rehearsed over and over. He's a regular now at the studio where Washington DC's finest go to practice, the girls think he's adorable and the guys all seem simultaneously confused and enamoured, probably because he's not your typical twink.

James doesn't care, lets it all filter away as he twirls and twines his body around the pole, thoughts and worries slipping away until he can think only of his own body and it's movements. As he lets go with his arms, swinging down backwards, back arched, he's simultaneously aware of every single muscle in his body. Every stretched sinew and tendon that allows him to support himself like this four feet off the ground, only his locked ankles and calf muscles keeping him upright. He knows his muscles are rippling under tanned skin made pale by the stage lights, can feel the trickle of sweat that's following the curve of his back down towards his neck.

He spins like that, slowly, every inch of his body on display. He can feel the eyes on him tracking his every movement and it sends tingles of electricity across his skin and down the nape of his neck. He should feel vulnerable like this, almost naked and on show for them all to see, but he doesn't. Not at all, in fact, he feels powerful. Every elevated heartbeat, every shallow breath and tight press of pants that are suddenly too small is all for him, all are his doing. The fact that these are some of the most powerful men on the planet.. James feels like he rules the earth right now. How could he not?

It's a heady and addictive feeling and James can't get enough of it. He reaches up with his left hand and let's his legs untwine from where they are wrapped around cool metal; slides slowly down towards the stage, legs spread wide in the splits while he's facing away from the audience. He's aware of them watching the curve of his ass as it almost touches the polished wood of the stage, tracking up his back to where his shoulders muscles are rippling with the effort of keeping him suspended just above the ground.

He curls his body up backwards in a c shape, spread legs curving in and wrapping back around the pole and he is heady with the gasps of shock and approval from his audience. Oh the things James can do with his body, and now they all get to see. He's facing them upside too now, and watching the patrons closest to the stage, their faces as flushed as his own, eyes wide and pupils dilated.. That makes something in James coo and purr appreciatively, watching his audience watch him back with desire evident on their faces.

James releases his hands grip on the pole and let's his head fall back nearly all the way to the floor; the stage lights throwing patterns of light and shadow across his stretched torso, his throat is bared to audience, and he knows wherever Brock is he's definitely getting off on this right now.

\--

\--

He twirls slowly as he sinks to the floor, but snaps upright as soon as his back touches wood, chest flat to the pole, back arched. He steps away, already missing the cool press of metal that offers some kind of relief to his heated skin, and mock bows to his audience.

The show is over and James waves coquettishly to them all as he heads backstage; flips his bangs forward to shade bright blue eyes and tilts his head back over his shoulder to blow them all a kiss. Every long lean muscle in his body is relaxed and he sways his hips as he moves, he must look as predatory as the audience members feel. All of them eyeing him like he's a piece of meat they want to devour. As he passes through the curtain the catcalling is drowned out a little, but James can sense the underlying current of energy rippling across the crowd. He knows out of the sea of men all dressed in white more than a few of them will be allowed to stay for round 2. James can't wait.

\--

He showers quickly in the stage changing quarters before heading down the hall to the dressing room in just a towelling robe, barefoot and carrying his glittery boots in hand. He isn't the only one who will be working here tonight and when he enters the room he's met with as much disarray as you'd expect backstage at a Victorias Secret fashion show. The room is full of other Club Hydra working girls and boys, and an array of hair and makeup people. He's immediately accosted by one of the former who pushes him down into the nearest available chair and sets to work on blow drying his hair, still wet from his shower.

She's quick and efficient and soon loose feathered waves settle around James' face, curled slightly backwards they don't hide his high cheekbones or fall in his eyes. When she's finished he's not given a chance to admire the result in the mirror before she shoos him on his way and sends him to go get dressed. James hurries over to where his backpack is slung on a coat stand with his leather pants and mesh shirt in that he bought with Natasha on Thursday.

After he's dressed he's grabbed by one of the makeup team, and really how many of them are there? He can't keep track, they're all flittering around like lots of tiny iridescent bugs.

She swipes some kind of black glittery kohl around his eyes, cooing over how long and dark his eyelashes are. James ignores her, already thinking about the events to come; focused on finding that tranquil calm place inside his mind that makes him pliant and heady.

When she's finished fussing with his appearance he joins the other other workers out in the corridor; there's too many to fit comfortably in one room and they're all lazing around, some sat on the floor others leaning relaxed against wall.

He joins one of the girls he vaguely recognises sat cross legged in the floor in the shade of a potted plant.

"Hey, you doing okay?" She looks a little nervous and he offers her a smile of encouragement as he bumps her shoulder with his own.

"Yeah, I've just.. Never done anything like this before. I've only been working here a few months." He grins back at her, wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders.

"You will do just fine. I can tell. Plus you look gorgeous."

She looks up at him with a weak smile, at least it's there. "You really think so?"

"Of course." He presses an easy kiss to here forehead, before he pulls away and stands offering her a hand up to.

All of the others have begun filing down the corridor and James follows them, tugging the girl who barely comes up to his waist along with him by the hand.

\--

When he enters the room its enough to take his breath away; a large hall, it must be a ballroom, is ethereally decorated with gossamer hangings. All around the outside edges of the room little nooks are sectioned off with the swoops of silk, casting patterns of light and shadow where the moonlight shines through the skylight set in the ceiling high above.

In the middle of the room is a raised platform and a thrill shoots down James' spine as he immediately recognises what it's for; all of the cubby holes and nooks divided by opaque gossamer means the party goers won't be able to see what their neighbours are doing, but all of them will have a front row view of whatever is occurring on the stage in the middle.

He gives a final squeeze to his little friends hand and saunters over to Alexander when beckoned; floaty, haunting music is playing in the background and everything has a kind of surreal air to it.

"James." Pierce looks him up and down and smiles approvingly, letting his eyes linger on the hard planes of his stomach that are barely visible through the soft mesh of his shirt. The threads are kind of metallic and he shimmers in the moonlight; he feels a little like a peacock.

"Sir." James bows his head subserviently, though a smirk still flickers around the edges of his lips. He can barely contain the energy thrumming through his body in anticipation of what is to come, though he keeps his posture relaxed and still.

Alexander smooths his hair away from his forehead, letting the soft strands slip through his fingers, and he guides James' head back up with a single finger under his chin. "You will be on the stage tonight."

It's not a question, and James feels the adrenaline rush through his veins, every nerve prickling with electricity. "Who am I to serve, sir?" He keeps his eyes half lidded as he peers up at Pierce.

The older man releases the gentle grip he has on his jaw and pushes him in the direction of Rumlow, who James only now notices has fallen in behind his bosses left shoulder.

James stumbles slightly for effect, though Pierce didn't really shove him that hard, but every part of this is an act. A carefully choreographed power play. He's caught by Brock as strong hands come up to steady him, holding him against a well muscled chest. Brock has removed the white linen jacket from earlier in the day, now clad only in that soft navy shirt that does nothing to hide the beautiful form beneath, and a pair of black jeans, not as tight as James normally wears, but ones that still hug every line and curve.

"Careful, poppet." Rumlow grows slightly as he chastises James for being clumsy, and he allows himself to tremble with want against the other man's form.

"You will be looked after by Rumlow and Rollins tonight, and anyone else I deem suitable."

James hears Pierce speak behind him, and nods without turning his head away from where his face is pressed against the side of Brock's throat. "Yes sir." He whispers, allowing his breath to ghost over the small hairs at the bottom of Rumlow's hairline. He feels the other man's muscles go taut against him and knows that tonight is going to be worst kind of pleasure.

"Good, don't forget to make a scene boys."

He hears Alexander walk away, and then Brock is tugging his away from where he's pressed against him; hands on either side of James' face, cupping his jaw. "Ready, pet?"

James nods, bites his bottom lip as he looks up at Rumlow, sees the other man's eyes are already as dark as night with both desire and something feral. Something that wants to mark James pretty skin and destroy him in all of the best ways.

Brock leans in and tugs James' lip away from his teeth with his own, slips his tongue through soft pink lips as he maps every inch of James' mouth. Takes his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles carefully; just enough for James to taste a metallic tang in his mouth when Rumlow pulls away.

"Mine," he growls, leaning his forehead against James' own, keeping his eyes open, his gaze penetrating. James feels as though the other man is looking into his soul, at all of the bits that make James him. It makes his knees weak.

Rumlow moves his grip from James face down to clasp both of his wrists in his left hand, and pulls him over towards the platform steps where Rollins is waiting.

Rollins leans in when they're close enough and captured James' now kiss swollen lips with his own. He isn't as sensual a kisser as Brock, he's more demanding, more harsh nips and an undercurrent of what might be barely controlled rage as he moves against the younger man like a force of nature. Taking, always taking. James leans back against Brock's chest as Jack presses into him, lets the strong grip on his wrists ground him.

Jack backs up the stairs onto the platform, strong hands on James' hips pulling him with him. Brock follows, keeping a tight grip on his wrists.

James is immediately aware of eyes on all sides watching the three of them; he can see where all around the room couples, sometimes three or four people, are tucked away between rows of gossamer. The beautiful working boys and girls like butterflies in the night. Everyone seems to be pursuing their own interests; he can see at least three boys, younger than himself, strung up in restraints against the wall. In another nook a senator sits on a cushioned chair, he holds the end of a strip of leather and James let's his eyes follow it down to where a young girl is curled up at his feet with a collar around her neck. They're all watching; he smiles. Time to play then.

\--

He presses forwards against Rollins as the other man takes his wrists from Brock; but the other man smoothly tugs James around so he's caged in, trapped between the press of the other man's strong arms. He wraps a length of leather around James' wrists, ties it tighter than Rumlow ever would.

James goes limp in his grip, goes willingly when Jack lifts his arms up over his head and hooks the leather over a hook dangling from the ceiling. Much as it rather resembles a meat hook, James thinks it's probably intended to display a chandelier as the centrepiece of the room; on any other night at least. He's the centrepiece tonight. Eyes on me.

He lets his body relax, he knows it makes it easier. Rumlow is moving now; he'd been still watching James pliant in Rollins' arms, but now he steps up to run eager hands over James' body, sliding up underneath his shirt and trailing fingers along the defined lines of his torso. He grips the bottom of his shirt and carefully rolls it up, positions it so that James is left with it wrapped around his head in a makeshift blindfold, unable to see or turn his head where his arms hold the shirt in place. His leather pants are unbuttoned next, and finally he's left clad only in a pair of black boxers that leave very little to the imagination.

He's still aware of the eyes on him from all sides, can still smell that both Brock and Jack are nearby by vague whiffs of their aftershave. He waits.

He hears movement behind him, Rollins normally moves silently so it must be deliberate, and then the press of cool weighted leather trailing first up one leg, then down the other. It disappears for a moment, then reappears at the nape of his neck, moving slowly down the curve of his back and up his sides in tantalisingly slow circles. They're going in heavy then.

He keeps his muscles loose, focuses on the patterns a tongue is painting on his skin, he knows it's Brock's, trailing over the bare skin of his collar bones and down the middle of his chest. He's prepared for it when it comes, but he still can't help arching into Rumlow's touch as the first strike comes from behind. Rollins is restraining himself, he's aware of that much, but the bite of the leather is still sharp and it draws a whimper from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock starts to harden where it's trapped by his boxers.

He counts the lashes, each time in a different place, one through ten. Then the trailing flick of the leather disappears. He moans at the loss of sensation in its absence; even if it's not exactly pleasant, he misses the whispers it leaves on his skin - reminding him that he's not alone in this room.

No one is touching him now and he doesn't know where the other two men are; their tread has gone silent, and as much as he strains his ears the cloth of his shirt wrapped over them really doesn't help. He waits though, he can be patient.

He jolts with surprise when he feels a hand wrap around his cock from behind; unable to arch into the touch where he's strung up, he can only hang there helpless and hope that whoever is moving their hand so torturously slow will please speed up already, because he needs some kind of friction right now. His whole body is a line of tension, and he can feel beads of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, beginning their smooth descent down the golden curve of his back.

The fingers are warm and rough and calloused in all the right places so James is going to bet it's Jack; his suspicions are confirmed when only a minute later he feels the press of a large object against his entrance. Brock always makes sure to prep him carefully, make sure he's ready for it. Rollins frankly doesn't give a fuck and James thinks he'd prefer that right about now because any kind of pressure and friction, no matter how painful, is far better than none at all.

Rollins does at least go slowly as he pushes the toy up inside of him; it's large, and the stretch would be on the wrong side painful if he wasn't completely lax and dangling from where his aching arms are suspended above him. His breaths still come hard and fast, though he makes sure to keep his breathing as even as possible, maintain some measure of control. When the toy is pushed in right up to its base breath ghosts over the side of his face and he hears Jack rumble low in chest "keep it there."

He nods because what else can he do, but now the hand slowly stroking him is gone and there's pressure inside him but no friction and James needs. Oh how he needs. Something, anything everything.

\--

He doesn't know how long he's left there on display; with sounds muffled and no vision it's hard to tell the passage of time. All he can do is count his own heartbeats, but that's rather hard to do when the rhythm isn't steady; fast, slow, fast, slow, when every time his aching cock starts to flag there's a gentle buzzing and the toy starts to vibrate inside him.

Every now and then lines of cold sharp pain race over his skin, and he's pretty sure one of them is tracing a knife over his overly-sensitised skin. Whoever it is isn't pressing hard enough to slice, it's probably shallower than a paper cut if he thinks about the sensation of pressure and the angle, but they are going from pressure pint to pressure point and his blood sings a response to the call of the cold metal.

When the knife too is taken away James feels strangely detached from his body; like he's just another spectator somewhere in the room, floating high above the scene. His breath comes fast and high now and he's lost all sense of rhythm, that one last thing he could control.

Finally, has it been minutes? Hours? He feels warm hands smooth over still aching sides; tugging him against a muscular chest, taking some of the weight from his aching arms. Brock then. He falls with a jerk as the flick of a knife slashes through his leather bonds, and he collapses against Rumlow who staggers back slightly but remains upright. He pauses a minute, allows James to nuzzle against the soft skin at the base of his throat whilst he finds his strength in his legs again. He smells delicious, sharp woodsmoke and some kind of spicy liquor; James wants to trace his tongue over every inch of his skin.

He whines when Rumlow carefully pulls away from him, Rollins stepping forwards to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, press him down to his knees. He's allowed a second to adjust to his new position, kneeling on the lacquered wooden floor with Jack towering over him, as the other man removes his belt and unzips his trousers.

Before Rollins can step forwards, press the head of his already leaking cock against pout of James' lips, he feels the toy being pulled from his ass; he keens loudly in response, he feels wide open and gaping - completely exposed on the stage for all to see. Jack takes the opportunity of an open mouth to press forwards, roughly shoving his cock against the back of James' throat. He chokes on it for a moment before he can adjust, but is quickly distracted by someone dropping to their knees behind him; filling him back up where the toy was removed.

James stays still for a minute, unable to get his breathing right with the sensation of white out pleasure that a cock pressed bruisingly against his prostate leaves, with another near blocking his airway simultaneously. His chest heaves, but they quickly find their rhythm; Rumlow slamming into him from behind and James being thrown forwards to press his forehead against Jack's lower stomach. The dark hair there tickling his forehead, which awkwardly makes him want to sneeze.

James knows he won't last long, but if he comes before either of his masters he knows he will be duly punished; so he goes to town on Jack's cock, leaving the normally emotionless, cold man, a groaning mess above him. He mewls and squirms downwards every time Brock brushes against his prostate, and feels the darker haired man tense inside him when he does. Brock loves him needy.

Rumlow comes first, hips loosing their rhythm and stuttering against the curve of James' behind as he bucks up into him; spilling hot and wet, painting his insides. He bites down on the juncture between James' neck and collarbone when he does, and James moans something deep, dirty and needy; sending glorious vibrations straight up Rollins dick.

Jack reaches over and roughly pulls the shirt off of James' eyes; where his arms up until now have still been trapped, crossed against the back of his head. He's given no time to enjoy the feeling rushing back into them though, Jack only removed the blind fold so that he could look down into James' sea-glass eyes - fixing them with his own in a searing look as he comes down his throat.

Jack pulls away first, walks over to a nearby pile of blankets and towels and grabs one to wipe himself clean, before zipping his pants back up. James is left held in the safe cocoon of Rumlow's arms as he leans back against his chest. The sweat is starting to cool on his skin and he shivers both with the chill and the fact his cock is still hard and flushed.

"Need a hand there poppet..?" Rumlow's voice is dark like liquorice against the shell of his ear, and James' breath catches in his throat as he shivers - this time for a very different reason to the cooling air around them.

He's almost ashamed of how little it takes to finish him off, just a few quick strokes of Brock's hand and he's painting the stage in front of them with white stripes.

Happy labour day indeed.


	4. In which Rumlow thinks his newest team mate needs to destress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an absolute sucker for Brock taking Steve under his wing in movie-verse, knowing that canonically it ends in betrayal <3 Oh you know how to hurt me in all of the best ways Marvel..
> 
> In this fic I like to believe that Brock genuinely does intend to allow Steve into HYDRA's little world of sin, but Steve is just too.. Steve.
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Gloomy Sunday" - Portishead  
> • "Yellow Flicker Beat" - Lorde  
> • "Smokestack Lightnin'" - Howlin' Wolf (because 1. Bar music, 2. The groups name)  
> • "Don't let me be misunderstood" - Lana del Rey
> 
> Helpful playlist here:  
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

Steve doesn't do anything special for labour day weekend; he watches sports on tv, goes for a jog each day, and orders takeout from a different place each evening in the name of trying new things. It may be the last official weekend of summer here in Washington DC, but you'd not know it from the humidity that has set in. The air is hot and heavy, and Steve is reluctant to move more than 10 feet away from the aircon.

He's exhausted by the end of his first full week at S.H.I.E.L.D; uses that as an excuse to lay around and do nothing. It's not even physical exhaustion really, he just feels mentally drained. All of these new names and faces to memorise, intelligence to learn, files to read and past ops to learn details of. Not to mention all of the bureaucracy bullshit that comes with setting up a new unit within the MoD. Steve has high hopes for the Avengers Initiative, but he just wishes he didn't have to be present to cosign every single document and contract. 

His only reprieve was the Thursday spent over at Stark Industries with Tony; he quickly discovered that the other man has no time for propriety or bureaucracy, and Steve understands why he's officially a consultant. It means he exists somewhat separately to both the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D itself; he isn't under the command of anyone in particular outside of active ops, and has pretty much free reign to do what he wants as long as he stays within certain regulations. Steve wonders how that decision was made, and if Fury had to learn the hard way how to handle Tony Stark. 

Because Tony Stark does need handling, that's for sure; he's like a volcano trapped in a hurricane, a spit fire personality combined with a whirl wind attention span, and quite frankly, an unstoppable force of nature. And his creations! Steve thinks he could spend days down in Tony's lab without ever getting bored. The battle armour is definitely the most amazing thing Steve has ever seen, and he has no problem admitting that. 

Saturday bleeds into Sunday, and Steve doesn't go to church; hasn't been in a long, long time. He doesn't even get out of bed for longer than it takes to shower and change into fresh sweats. When he orders food from the Thai place on the corner he eats it from the carton, propped up against his pillows, and watches some shitty drama on Netflix that he doesn't really pay enough attention to for him to understand the plot. He feels like he's playing a waiting game; like he's a video game character put on pause until someone returns and gameplay can resume.

He sleeps fitfully that night and drags himself back into the shower around 3am to wash off the sweat of another bad dream. How do you outrun the demons when they're locked inside your head with you?

A long Monday spent in the park with his sketch pad turns out to be more rewarding than he thought it would be; when he can't take anymore of just sitting watching happy families eat ridiculous quantities of picnic food he packs his supplies back into his backpack, puts his headphones in, and spends the next hour jogging. 

He startles when he notices the friendly face that has fallen in step alongside him; he doesn't know how long he's been there but the other man's dark skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat so it must have been a while, and Steve feels bad about having been so far inside his own head to even say hey.

The stranger with frankly fantastic facial hair is obviously struggling to keep Steve's pace, so he slows gradually to a walk and tugs his earphones out. It takes only a few minutes of casual conversation for Steve to work out that Sam is the 'Wilson' on his candidate shortlist; he thinks he just made the final cut.

They flop back under the shade of the tree Steve had claimed earlier as his own, laying back against the rough bark as they greedily empty two water bottles. Steve watches the children playing on the green in front of them, shrieks of unbridled enthusiasm that should be annoying only make Steve's heartstrings tense with longing for missed opportunities. He asks Sam why he's not celebrating with his family. Sam gives him a long look, tells him about Riley; about him being the only family he'd had for a long time. Steve nods in understanding and Sam can see it on his face that he's not alone on that one. 

"Happened to you too..?" He asks, head tilted inquisitively, hand clasping Steve's shoulder.

Steve shrugs, careful not to dislodge his hand. "Yeah, something like that." He doesn't elaborate and Sam doesn't press him for more details, they pass the afternoon in comfortable silence until the sun starts to turn towards the horizon and Sam says he better get on home.

Steve waves him away but knows it won't be the last he sees of Sam Wilson. 

\---

Thank god for Tuesday, Steve thinks, when he can return to work and get back into some kind of routine; it helps a lot. There's something deeply satisfying about waking up in the morning and having every part of his day mapped out for him; all he has to do is concentrate on putting one foot in of the other and the rest will take care of itself.

This week is a little better than the last; he doesn't feel as exhausted at the end of each day, the constant barrage of new information and faces has subsided slightly, and Steve finds himself actually itching by the end of the week. It's a familiar itch, it's the one that says he's stagnating and he needs a new mission, something to make the adrenaline course through his body and his blood sing hot in his veins. It's an itch he hasn't felt in a long time, it's been over a year since... Since it happened. Steve stomps down on that thought before it can run away with itself. No use moping about the past and persons not currently present. He has other things to worry about now; things like processing Sam's security check, helping Natasha run surveillance on Stark Industries to make sure Tony is behaving himself, because he's now apparently her inside man. He trains weapons with Brock and Clint on Tuesday, Wednesday he spends with the other members of STRIKE team Alpha with Natasha and Maria Hill putting them through their paces on infiltration drills. They're a tactical response unit, the hard and fast heavy hitters, they're not designed to be sneaky. Natasha some how makes it work for them.

Thursday he meets with Fury in the morning for a conference call with the WSC; they have to sign off on every single new development to the Avengers Initiative, which in Steve's mind is a complete waste of time. Accountability? Do the bad guys have accountability to consider before making their next move? The team needs to be ready now, not in six months time, he thinks. After all, even split seconds can make all the difference between life and death. Steve would know.

Friday he spends sparring with Rumlow and Rollins, Natasha and Clint have been sent away some place on Fury's orders and Steve doesn't dare to ask why. By the end of the session the itch that has been building in his gut all week is at an all time high, and Steve is far more bruised and battered than he should be given its Rumlow and Rollins he's fighting; and Steve could take both of them easily on a bad day. At the same time.

The itch is burning under his skin though, and every strike that Rumlow lands on him is a balm. He'll take what he can get, sparring like this; fast, brutal, efficient, he feels like he's earned these bruises that mar his skin. Little bursts of light beneath the surface every time a blow connects. 

Rumlow notices though and in the middle of a particularly vicious combo he pulls his punch, coming up short and stopping before it connects with Steve's sternum, raising an eyebrow in an obvious challenge as to why Steve had not even attempted to block it.

Steve grins and looks sheepish; "I need to reconnect," gestures down at his torso, none of the men have shirts on, "this works better than anything else I've found." He has a few nicks from a sharp blade, and aforementioned bruises litter the sides of his rib cage. Rumlow and Rollins are both not much better off, but that's to be expected; if Steve hadn't just been taking most of what they threw at him all afternoon they'd have been finished up hours ago. The other two men forced to throw in the towel for the day and go nurse their wounds.

Rumlow throws him a grin back and it takes Steve by surprise because it's almost feral looking. 

"Need to be reminded you're still here, huh?" He raises a single dark eyebrow and keeps his eyes locked on Steve's, takes a step forwards. "Because as long as it hurts, you know that it's not a dream, that this.." He jabs a single finger at the spot over Steve's heart, "that this is still beating."

Steve gapes, words failing him slightly, and he can only nod because Rumlow gets it. 

The feral look on the darker man's face turns softer, and he gives Steve a once over glance and nods. "I think I might know something that will help.. Me and some of the other STRIKE guys have a place we sometimes to.. Decompress. Let some of that pressure out from the under the skin that's just itching to get out." 

Steve feels the shiver coming on even as he tries to stop it in its tracks; rolling from his tense shoulders all the way down his lower back, sides twitching. Rumlow notices, of course he does, Steve is shirtless and his eyes turn wicked.

"In fact I think it's exactly what you need tiger.." He hmms to himself and nods, "I have your number, we'll be in contact tomorrow evening."

At that he sweeps past Steve towards the exit of the gym, snagging his and Rollins' shirts from the bench by the door as he passes, and the other man trails after him, only offering Steve a wry smile as he goes. 

Steve isn't sure what that feeling in the pit of his stomach is; he thinks it's somewhere between excitement, anticipation and fear. It makes his head spin, and he thinks he's lucky to make it home in one piece on his bike when his head feels like it's trapped in a wash cycle.

\--

Saturday afternoon Rumlow texts Steve that he and some of the other STRIKE guys will be over around 8. Steve doesn't ask how the older man knows where he lives, it's not worth questioning at this point. He hesitates before messaging back asking what he should wear, he doesn't really know what to expect of this evening and, much as he feels like a teenage girl for asking, he'd rather do that than embarrass himself further by fucking it up. 

Rumlow sends back the laughing emoji and a "whatever you want man, what do you normally wear on a Saturday night..?" And Steve stops to think about that for a second, because there is two ways he could answer that really; and it kind of depends on location as to which.. 

He decides black skinny jeans, a white tee and his black leather jacket are a safe enough choice, and adds his combat style boots to the ensemble. The problem is that although his imagination is running away with him at this point, Steve really doesn't know what Rumlow and his buddies have in mind for the evening. 

He shouldn't have worried too much he finds, because when Rumlow, Rollins and two other guys he can vaguely identify as Kaminksy and Ward buzz the intercom of his building at near 8 on the dot, he finds they're dressed pretty casually too. In fact, in a grey v-neck and dark blue jeans Rumlow is probably the most dressed up of the lot. 

He falls in step behind the four of them as Rumlow leads the ragtag group a couple of blocks east, and ushers them into a bar that Steve thinks he's passed once or twice before. There are pool tables scattered around the ground floor in front of the bar area, overlooked by a mezzanine layer with plenty of tables and a few darts boards against the far wall. It isn't what Steve was expecting but he figures he'll take tonight as it comes and follows the others to the bar to grab beers.

They head immediately for the mezzanine afterwards, and Steve finds he isn't surprised; the table in the far corner on the left allows the best possible view of the bar and pool area, and a clear line of sight to the entrance. 

Kaminksy and Ward leave them after the first round of pints for a pool table on the lower level, Steve leans over the balcony watching with Rumlow and Rollins; the two men are talking bets and odds and Steve gets the impression that this is a regular occurrence if there is a running betting pool.

He starts to relax after the third round of pints and doesn't protest when Rumlow drags him back to the bar and orders two bourbons; it's nice, the comfortable camaraderie of the four other men, the casual brushing of shoulders and inside jokes referred to with sly winks. It feels a little bit like family, and though Steve is the intruder here, he could almost close his eyes and pretend that one of them were a little taller, that another's accent was tinged with a slight French lilt. He doesn't though, keeps his attention focused on the amber liquid swirling slowly in his hand, ice cubes clinking against the glass. 

Rumlow leans into him where he's resting his forearms on the bar alongside him and Steve is surprised, though he doesn't pull away. "Lost in your own head again."

And Steve's cheeks flush slightly because he's been caught; he has this tendency to just space out sometimes, as though his minds a million miles away - and though he's kept a tight lid on it the last few weeks, the alcohol moving slowly through his system is loosening his control a little. 

Steve nods; "yeah. Sorry."

The slightly shorter man shakes his head, bumping Steve's shoulder with his own. "Don't worry about it Cap, we all have ghosts. That's what tonight's about anyway, right? Help you get out of that pretty little head of yours for a bit."

Steve smiles back, soft and easy even as he feels his heart rate increase. "Thanks, I appreciate you guys inviting me along."

Rumlow claps a hand on Steve's forearm, almost sloshing his drink a little, then pulls away and heads back for the stairs to the mezzanine. "Come on, I'm about to go destroy Rollins at darts and I want someone there as a witness incase he tries to deny it happened later."

Steve grins and follows him, yeah, this is easy.

Under Rollins' directions they leave the bar a couple of hours later, not yet 11 o'clock, and Steve can't help but notice the tension building in the other men. Their eyes are a little brighter and they're twitchy, as though adrenaline is already sifting through their blood, putting them on edge. 

Steve feels the itching sensation building beneath his skin again; he doesn't know where they are going, but the anticipation evident on the others faces and the predatory looks are invoking a similar effect on him.

Rollins flags a cab down and all five of them pile in, it's uncomfortable for the 10 minutes or so it takes to get where they are going, but Steve isn't concerned about that. He's too busy letting nervous anxiety build in his stomach about where exactly they're going and what it is they are about to do. From what he can tell, none of them are carrying weapons on them - though he's willing to be there are enough concealed knives hidden in boots and tucked in waistbands to arm a small nation. 

The driver pulls up outside what looks for all the world to Steve like a swanky hotel, and then there's a crush of limbs as five too tall bodies try to extricate themselves from the cab, inelegantly piling onto the pavement. 

Steve doesn't know what else to do, so he just follows the others when Rollins makes for the front door, stone steps lined with maroon carpet under the canopy over the entrance. 

"Relax." Rumlow hisses in his ear as he falls in step beside him. He's smiling and Steve tries to return it, tries to quell the nerves making his eyes flighty and his arms twitchy. He pulls himself together and follows the dark haired man up the steps; with the buzzing beneath his skin and his muscles tensed, he feels more like he's waking into battle than what appears to be a private members club. 

\--

The reception area is all cream marble and soft mood lighting, and the men wait at the desk quietly whilst one by one they add their names and the time to a page in the leather bound book that lies open on the counter. Steve watches as Rumlow fills in his own name for him below his own, and follows the other men as they head through a set of oak doors to a bar decorated like something out of time. With dark wood panelling, oil lamps set in alcoves high in the walls, and men, mostly around 40 and above, seated casually around small wooden tables in over stuffed chairs, Steve thinks someone wouldn't look out of place here in a velvet smoking jacket, cigar or pipe in hand. 

He follows the others over to the bar and Rumlow gets a familial wave from the bartender, Rollins a nod; they must be regulars here Steve thinks. 

"What will it be tonight Brock..?" The bartender is fairly young compared to the everyone else in the room, the closest to Steve in age he'd guess, short blonde hair cropped close to his head that screams ex-military. 

Steve is too busy distracted by the thought that Rumlow is 'Brock'; that the man actually has a name that isn't Commander, or Rumlow, or 'Boss' as his men refer to him. Steve grins, it makes him seem more human some how, to have a name.

Rumlow gives the bartender a considering look; "get my new friend here," he gestures to Steve, "the usual, oh and a whiskey, a double, he'll need it." The bartenders eyes look Steve over for a second, and he can't help but feel like he's being assessed. Then it's over and the man's attention is fixed back on Rumlow.

"And the rest of you?"

Rollins steps forwards and grabs a 2/3rds empty bottle of scotch from the rail behind the bar. We'll take this, and then we'll go hunting in about half an hour after we get Rogers here settled in.." 

The bar tender nods, "very well." And Steve thinks very regular customers, if he can get away with something like that.

Rumlow presses the glass of whiskey into Steve's hand and grins wolfishly; "liquid courage, you'll need it."

Steve's breath catches in his throat but he doesn't argue; takes it and swallows it down as quickly as he can. He's starting to get an idea of what kind of place he's in.

Rumlow (Brock?) waits for him to set the glass back on the smooth polished mahogany of the bar, then grabs his arm leading him towards the elevator door set the far side of the room. "Back in five boys," he calls over his shoulder, and Steve looks round to see the other three giving him thumbs up and wolf whistles. The energy moving sluggishly beneath his skin rises in response, the itch gets stronger. 

Steve knows what kind of place he's in, thinks Lord forgive him because he may not have been to church in a while but he didn't think that meant he'd fall to temptation like this. But he feels alive for the first time in a long time as he follows Brock down a plush carpeted corridor on what the elevator says is the third floor. They pass rooms with open doors, all empty of people, but Steve has seen leather restraints, metal things he wouldn't have a clue what to do with, lengths of satin ribbon coiled on a mussed bed looking like they were recently used for.. Something. Steve doesn't want to think about what, though he feels his stomach roil in anticipation and wonder.

Brock stops in front of a door at the end of the corridor, pushes it open and flips the light on. It's not bright, the mood lighting casting a soft yellow light over the furniture in the room, and shoves Steve through the door. 

He gives Steve a grin, dark eyes flashing, teeth sharp. Steve thinks that even out of tac gear, dressed in a soft wool sweater to boot, Rumlow is decidedly dangerous looking. Something wild between the eyes.

"He'll be in in five, and yes Cap, I guessed." Steve feels hot pink flush across his skin, dust his cheeks. He thought he'd been subtle, he'd certainly never made any mention of it. Brock laughs at his reaction, holding his hands palms out; "no judgement here, okay? Might want to undress ready. Go get him tiger."

And Steve watches as he closes the door behind him and feels vaguely terrified as he's left on his own in the room. His cheeks are still stained pink, and he doesn't know whether to strip or not, what if it was a joke and whoever is about to walk through that door laughs at him? 

He doesn't, sits awkwardly on the end of the bed and waits, nerves coiling in his stomach like a ball of snakes. The buzzing under his skin has become a steady thrum though, and Steve thinks that actually maybe this wasn't a bad idea. Rumlow was right - he needs this. 

Then the door opens and all breath is stolen from his lungs as an angel steps through the open door.


	5. In which James meets a beautiful stranger and learns the meaning of  "American Dream boy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After keeping you guys waiting so long for Steve and Bucky to actually meet I kind of feel bad that this isn't as long or as detailed as I'd perhaps like it to be :/
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter up tonight/tomorrow as consolation though!
> 
>  
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "New Americana" - Halsey  
> • "You can be the boss" - Lana del Rey  
> • "Daddy Issues" - The Neighbourhood ft. Lana del Rey  
> • "Transatlanticism" - Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> Helpful playlist here:  
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

James is a little put out when he hears Rumlow is here but doesn't want to see him; has decided to send his new friend to play instead. James isn't jealous exactly, it's no concern of his that Rumlow is currently a floor down with his work colleagues and some other pretty young things, it's that he's sent a replacement in his stead.

James likes to make his own decisions as to which johns he will and won't accept in his call book, though of course word from Pierce is final on the matter. Brock can't just suddenly start making those decisions for him and sending whoever without James' consent. Well, apparently he can, but that doesn't mean James has to be happy about the matter. 

He's done well from himself here and he doesn't need anyone else messing with him now; especially not Brock. There are stories about some of the people who frequent the club, and James has been careful to make sure he's never on the end of their.. Affections. 

He huffs as he changes quickly, this is his game, no one else's. He's made a life for himself doing this, Alexander looks after him; he has a gorgeous apartment, a nice car even if he never drives it, and he gets to fuck the worlds political leaders on a daily basis - have them come undone under his ministrations, completely under his spell - it makes him feel powerful. Brock doesn't get to start changing the rules now. He's resigned to it though, knows if he protested Rumlow would just put a call through to Alexander and get him to okay it. 

He throws his shed clothes over the back of a chair and pulls a black silk robe off of its hanger on the rail; the fabric settles around him cool and soft, and he allows himself to stop thinking for a minute and focus on the sensation against his skin. 

He seats himself in front of one of the mirrors at a vanity table, and gives his reflection a quick assessment; hair up he thinks, it will look better against the well cut lines of the silk, more regal. If he's taking on a new client he wants to at least make a good impression. He assumes if tonight goes well the guy will be back anyway; Luke who works on the bar had called through and said the guy worked with Brock, and was seeing him at the older man's request. James knows all of Rumlow's spec-ops buddies are regulars here. 

He can only thank his lucky stars that no one has ever thought to bring his Natasha; not that a place as shady and seedy as this would interest her, but still.. The risk is there. 

James finishes pinning his hair up, leaves the front strands to settle softly around his face, and slicks some black eyeliner around his eyes; giving himself a once over he decides it will do. He wishes he could do something about the yellowing bruises on his back though; they haven't faded completely from the previous weekend even with a week off just attending his classes, and he hopes the mood lighting will be enough to hide the worst of it. 

Not that he's ashamed of them, he's worn them like a badge all week, but it ruins the magic of the industry a little when your next client can clearly see the marks of the previous one. 

James is as ready as he'll ever be though so he grabs the sheet of paper sat waiting on the side and a fountain pen, and pushes open the door to the dressing room; slinking across the corridor with feet quiet on plush carpet. 

Whatever he was expecting, the blonde haired Adonis sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him when he pushes the door open definitely wasn't it.

\--

James' eyes are hungry when he stalks across the floor to the other man; movements fluid and sensual under the loose cling of his short silk robe. He watches the other man swallow as he stops in front of him, and his eyes dart around nervously, unsure where to look. James finds it kind of endearing in an awkward sort of way. 

He catches the blondes chin with a single finger and tilts his head up to look at him; he holds the cornflower blue eyes with his own icy gaze and practically purrs the "hello gorgeous.." that slips from his lips.

The other man's eyes go a little blown, and his breath definitely hitches. Good, he's just beautiful and James is going to have a lot of fun tonight. He wants this gorgeous specimen to take him to pieces already.

James brandishes the rolled up sheet of paper he's carrying; "let's get the formalities out of the way beautiful, phone goes in the tray over there .." he points to the dresser, "and your name goes here."

The blonde man stands clumsily, trying not to look away from James as he hurries to do as instructed, drops his phone in the tray. He glances over the proffered piece of paper quickly before scribbling "Steven Grant Rogers" at the bottom. Non-disclosure agreement signed without a fuss, James tucks it away in the drawer of the nightstand and turns back to face the other man. He still looks nervous and James is really going to have to do something to help him relax. 

He walks purposefully towards Steven noting how the other man retreats slightly until the back of his legs are bumping the side of the bed. James gives him a careful push with one hand on his chest, so all of a sudden Steven is seated, and steps into the gap his now parted legs have made. He trails a finger down the middle of the other man's chest and stomach, following the natural dip there between his muscles, and smirks slightly at the full body tremor that elicits. 

"How do you want me..?" James' grin is sharp and full of teeth, eyes flashing in challenge. 

Steven looks up at him breath hitching, and oh god, James loves the way that makes his soft white tshirt pull taut across his chest and abs. He wants to strip him bare and map every inch of him with his tongue. 

Steven hasn't made any demands of his own yet though, so he's going to have to assume that he doesn't usually frequent places like this. He's quite obviously ex-military from his posture and stature, so James knows that the other man can give orders. He'll just have to tap into that a little.

"You're wearing far too many clothes." James smirks down at him, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Maybe you should hurry up and fix that," the other man frowns and snarks back, and oh, hello, James thinks. There is a little bite there after all. It sounds almost like that was a reflex though and he can see the other man's eyes widening as though he's about to apologise for being rude. James won't let him. 

He leans down and kisses him hard, pushing his leather jacket down his shoulders as he concentrates on licking and nipping his way into the other man's mouth. Steven tastes of malt whiskey and smoke, and James intends to learn every way to make him moan and his body hum under his hands. The taller man takes control then, quickly shucks his jacket off and flinging it to the side before reaching one strong hand up to cup James' jaw as he pulls him down on top of him. Their legs still trail off the edge of the bed, but they're chest to chest and that makes their crotches line up; and just as Steven takes his bottom lip between his teeth and bites gently, James feels his hard cock, already straining against the denim of his jeans, brush against his own. He can't help the wanton moan that slips from his mouth as his eyes close involuntarily. 

Steven rolls them over then, bracketing his arms on either side of James' chest so he isn't leaning all of his weight on him. James looks up at what he'd guess is around 230lbs of prime American muscle and catches baby blue eyes with his own. He bites his lip and his eyes flutter closed as he imagines all of the things he wants this man to do him. 

Steven slides backwards off the bed and stands, quickly removing his boots, and his t-shirt and jeans follow as he folds them neatly onto the dresser. James stays where he left him, but he follows him around the room with his eyes because holy shit, this man looks like he was carved from marble by the Angels themselves. Apart from Rumlow, who is leaner than Steven but has just as little body fat, and of course Rollins and some of the other agents, James is used to the paunch of middle aged senators and government officials. Steven is a gift. 

He returns to stand over James then, all long lines of hard muscle and his cock already flushed and glistening at the tip. James looks up at him smiling but with the corner of his mouth upturned, daring; "what do you want to do to me..?"

And James would swear the other man chokes, his pale face dusted with pink across his cheekbones as he manages to bite out "everything."

James own dick responds to that, twitching and peeking out of the front of his robe which is only vaguely tied now. 

Steven sits next to him on the bed, leaning down to capture his lips with his own as he slowly pushes the robe off of James' upper body, the silk pooling at his waist. When James' arms are free he loops them around Steven's neck, sitting up slightly so he can lean into to the other man. 

He kisses sweetly, James notes. None of the hunger that drives Brock wild, or the crude lewdity of middle aged statesmen. James thinks he likes it, let's Steven wrap strong arms around him and pull him into his lap as he traces the inside of his mouth with his tongue. James shifts slightly, the silk of his robe drawing against Steven's cock as it stands flushed against his stomach, and swallows down his moan with another kiss.

They stay like that for a while, really James is finding it hard to keep a track of time with the beautiful man moving against him. At some point he lays James down backwards, their lips still locked together, as Steven lies on his side above him. Cradling James to him with one strong arm supporting his shoulders whilst the other traces every inch of his skin. 

It's beautiful and amazing and sweet torture because James is hard as he's ever been, and there is no friction against his dick. 

He wonders what he's done to deserve this, this amazing beautiful man touching every inch of him, obviously committing all to memory. The aftertaste of liquor on his lips alone is enough to make James heady with desire. 

He thinks he's found his new favourite, Brock can go fuck himself. Technically his fault anyway for sending Steven in his place. 

\--

"Are you going to fuck me tonight?" He growls against the other man's lips, because some men come here for that, some don't. Some just want to tie him up, have their way with knives and toys, then leave him wanting and begging. James gets the impression that isn't how it's going to go with Steven though.

"Do you want me to..?" Steven breaks the kiss, mouthing at the shell of James' ear when he replies, grazing it with his teeth.

James can't contain his laugh, it just bubbles up out of him and spills over. "It's really not about what I want sweetie." He looks up at Steven and locks his gaze with his own, smiling up at him as he traces Steven's face with careful fingertips. Brushing the pads of his fingers over that pouting lip, the highs of his cheekbones, committing it all to memory.

There's a pink flush dusting Steven's cheeks as he replies; "I want to." Though he looks slightly scandalised that he's even said it. Good, James thinks. He wants this man to own him, to take him apart in all of the best ways, tell him to call him Daddy and have James completely at his mercy. He's not sure if Steven will want to do any of that, but at least if he lets James ride his dick it will be kind of a consolation prize. 

"Want me to call you daddy?" He grins up at him, watches Steven's eyes go wide at the thought.

"No, uh.. No that, that won't be necessary.." Steven's voice catches at the thought and James looks up at him carefully. So, Steven likes the idea but has probably just never considered it before..? James really hopes this one is a repeat client. There's a lot he and Steven can explore together...

He moves to biting a careful line along the taller man's jaw, down the line of his neck;  
"How about sir..?" He feels the way Steven's throat goes taut beneath his lips as he swallows.

Then strong hands are wrapped around James' sides and Steve is rolling over onto his back, pulling James with him so he's draped on top of him. James looks down, blue eyes meeting his own where he's sprawled on the other man's chest.

"How about Steve? That work?" The other man's voice is deep, baritone, but surprisingly warm and James can hear the smile in his voice.

He nods, because he'll call Steve whatever he wants him to, and closes his eyes as Steve buries a hand in his hair, rubbing small circles on his scalp with his fingertips. His ministrations knock a few of the bobby pins free and James feels now loose strands of hair settle around his shoulders. 

"God you're gorgeous." Steve's skin vibrates when he speaks, and James can feel his words in his own where they are pressed together. He hums and rests his forehead against the well muscled chest beneath him, basking under the affection of Steve's compliments.

Steve catches his chin with careful fingers, draws his head up to pull him into a kiss. James feels his entire body melt against the well muscled lines of Steve beneath him, he deepens the kiss and feels them both draw breath in with a sharp hiss when their now bare cocks brush against each other. 

"Where's the lube..?" Steve's breath is warm against James' lips and he doesn't even try to restrain the way his body trembles against him with want.

"Drawer, side table," is all he manages to get out, and then Steve is sitting upright, one strong arm around James' back holding him in place in his lap as the other blindly gropes for the drawer. 

James hears the drawer slide open and Steve obviously finds the condoms and lube with relative ease, because the snap of the cap opening comes just a few seconds later. Steve is still kissing him, nibbling at his bottom, when a single cool digit circles his entrance slowly. James has to fight to resist the urge to push back, to let Steve set the pace that he wants. He doesn't think Steve would punish him for doing so like Brock would though, he gets the impression that this isn't about control or keeping James on the edge, Steve just doesn't want to rush him.

Steve does press in then and all further thoughts are cut off, James keens deep in his chest as Steve sets a rhythm, carefully brushing over his prostate every now and then. James is incapable of carrying on kissing him after Steve adds a second finger, scissoring them to stretch him open. He lets his head fall back where he's still kneeling over Steve's lap, baring his throat to him. 

By the time Steve has added a third finger James feels like a sweaty whimpering mess; the other man is going so slowly and sweetly he thinks it's probably going to give him diabetes. Steve is nipping and suckling down the length of his exposed throat, and James can't decide whether he wants to lean forwards against that clever mouth or press backwards against his fingers. 

Soon enough Steve pulls away though, and James can't help but feel empty; like he's wide open and exposed and something is missing. He looks down into Steve's eyes, pupils huge with want and desire, and Steve's strong hands on his hips carefully guide him down until he is filling James back up. James moans hot and needy when he's seated on Steve all the way down.

Steve moves then, flips them over without pulling out so that James is on his back at the edge of the bed and Steve is standing. He moves inside him carefully, giving a few experimental thrusts, and James wraps his legs around his waist and pulls him forwards, deeper.

Steve seems to get the hint and speeds up; hips snapping sharply backwards and forwards and James stops trying to hold back the mewls and moans that slip from kiss swollen lips. He goes to wrap his hand around his own neglected cock; flushed and swollen, leaking at the tip, but Steve bats his hand away. James is incredibly disappointed for a few seconds before Steve replaces it with his own; large and warm and calloused in all of right places. 

He knows he won't last long like this so he carefully pushes back against Steve as best he can, his insides tightening and flexing around his dick, pulling him in further. He's incredibly grateful for the fact he's laying down when Steve brushes against his prostate for the third time, he doesn't think body would be capable of supporting his weight right now.

It's hot and messy and sweaty and James thinks Steve might just drive him mad; he finds half of him wants the hurt-care of Rumlow, and the other half of him wants to lay here and bask under Steve's ministrations forever. Wants to let the man fuck him a thousand times over and hopes that every single time would be as sweet and needy as this. Blue eyes are so damn honest. 

Steve comes with a shout, hips stuttering and leaning over James with one hand on the bed, the other still wrapped around his cock. It only takes a few seconds for him to follow, his body arching backwards against the sheets, supple lines of his muscle tightening before the gentle patter of his release spilling on the bedspread beneath him. Steve flops down on the bed beside him looking wrung out, and James rolls over to nuzzle into his side, humming as a strong arm wraps around his waist pulling him in closer.

This feels nice, feels easy.

\--

He lies there for a few minutes soaking up the blonde man's presence, watching the rise and fall of his chest. "Want to shower?" He speaks and it feels like he's broken some sort of spell. Steve nods though and James rolls to his feet and offers him a hand. 

They wrap themselves around each other under the spray; there will be no round two tonight but Steve is almost reverent as he runs the wash cloth carefully over tanned skin, kisses the back of his neck as James leans back into him, sighing softly. 

They stay in the shower, warm water beating down on where their bodies are pressed together, far longer than is strictly necessary. This is the closeness that James craves he thinks; well muscled arms wrapped around him keeping him steady. A strong heartbeat beneath his ear as he rests his head on Steve's chest. 

All too soon he has to pull away and find them each a robe, tugging Steve's around his shoulders for him, knotting the front. He gathers the document and pen, and his discarded silk robe, blows the other man a kiss and a wink as he slips out of the door.

He doesn't miss the look of longing on the other man's face as he goes, and he has to lean back against the door for support after he whips the door to his dressing room closed behind him. 

Those eyes are going to be haunting his dreams for a long time he thinks; all summer sky blue, the colour of newness after rain has fallen.

He doesn't even try to wipe the smile of his face as he redresses and packs his things in his bag. He decides to slip out the back way again, unsure if Rumlow is still in the building. The other man is probably drunk if he and his friends have been out tonight, and James doesn't really feel like being his round two, or three.. He wants to fall asleep tonight dreaming of gentle hands and pale cheeks dusted with soft pink. Of eyes that look so open and honest and real, someone brand new to this, just a little confused and lost in the world. 

He checks his phone when he gets in, not even bothering to undress, just kicking his shoes off before he drops fully clothed onto soft sheets. He has two texts, one each from Becca and Natasha; he replies to Natasha's enquiring "plans tomorrow?" with "Brunch?" 

Then he calls Bec; he needs something to ground him right now, stop him drifting away into a contented daydream of blonde and blue. He may never even see Steven again.


	6. In which Brock feels a jealous over his favourite toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter Steve and Bucky got down, but oh, Brock's feeling a little neglected.. Jack comes to play too, so Rumlow can remind his dear sweet James that selfish desire is not only Brock's forte.
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Teenage Kicks" - The Undertones  
> • "Touching on my" - 3OH!3  
> • "Baby did a bad bad thing" - Chris Isaak
> 
> Helpful playlist here:  
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-

James kind of exists in a floaty daze for the next few days; he has brunch with Natasha on Sunday and she gives him a smug look when she finds his attention drifting.

He growls and frowns down at his eggs when she calls him on it, jabbing at them with his fork as though they have personally offended him.

"So, mystery guy doing good things to you..?" She drawls, pinning him with those green eyes he'd swear see straight through him.

"Maybe." He shrugs noncommitedly, he doesn't say yes or no though, so it's not really lying. It's the only way he can get around the infallible human lie detector that is Natasha Romanoff. He has to hold in a bark of disbelief at the realisation that, the only thing he uses the techniques he learned as spec ops for resisting interrogation these days, is to avoid awkward questions about his love life. When did he get so soft?

He can't help the way his stomach twists when he thinks of blue eyes though; he really hopes that wasn't the last he'll see of Steven Grant Rogers. He might even go so far as to ask Brock to bring his friend with him in the future.

Natasha doesn't press him further on the matter though and he's grateful; James' job doesn't really allow for much of a love life, after all, it's still cheating even if it is for work. He avoids seriously dating, though of course there have been flings and short lived love affairs here and there, and whilst Natasha can't know why, she seems to get that there's certain things James isn't really comfortable talking about sometimes. His lack of a long term relationship being one of them.

It will never stop her trying to set him up with her friends and colleagues though, and James appreciates her obvious vested interest in his happiness, he really does, but he'd almost choked on his iced frappé the time she'd suggested slipping Rumlow his number. God, Brock would have probably got a kick out of that though.

Natasha leaves him to brood after lunch, citing things to do for work in preparation for the week ahead. James respects how hard she works, but it makes him kind of glad to no longer be involved with the military or government in general. Being called upon to do things on a Sunday is just wrong. Sunday's are for junk food in bed and sleeping.

If he was interrogated about it later, James would never admit to spending the next 8 hours before he falls asleep laying in bed watching romcoms and eating chocolate until he feels sick. He does though. Sunday well spent.

Monday he has class, and it takes him more coffee than normal to get his dreamy brain to snap to it in time for his first lecture. He has an essay due the next day as well, and he spends the rest of Monday in the library struggling to concentrate while he mostly just chews his pen and doodles in the margins. It takes him far more time to finish it than it should, and James would berate himself if he could concentrate long enough to do so.

On Monday afternoon, trapped in a stuffy library with insufficient aircon and about a thousand other vaguely suicidal moping students, he's grateful he has no work commitments until his session with Rumlow on Tuesday. As soon as he's handed his essay in on Tuesday morning though, he finds he's unable to think about anything else.

The day drags on too slowly for his liking and he finds himself impatiently flitting about his apartment as soon as he gets in from class. He has hours until he's due at the Club for his appointment, but he showers and fusses with his hair and appearance until it's late enough he can justify heading down without being conspicuously early. He tries to quash the hope that Brock will bring his blonde friend with him again, but finds himself unable to.

\--

James is already laid out on the bed in their usual room by the time Brock arrives; he got Luke from the bar downstairs to help him bind his wrists with satin ribbon like he knows Rumlow loves, and he's wearing nothing but black boxers.

Brock growls as he spies James laid out ready for him; stalks over, shedding his jacket and shirt as he crosses the room, eager to claim his mouth for himself. James moans into the searing kiss as the older man traces all of the familiar lines and contours of his mouth, nips at his lower lip until it's red and swollen and only just not bleeding.

James pins him with bright blue eyes after he pulls away, pupils blown wide. "Clothes off please."

Brock's handsome face twists into an ugly smile at that, James feels his stomach lurch in what might be fear, even as his dick starts to swell; "and who exactly gives the orders here..? Pet?"

He keens, biting that swollen lip between his teeth. "You daddy, need you please."

Rumlow chuckles, sweeping fingertips smoothly over James' chest, circling first his right nipple, then his left. "Since you asked so nicely poppet."

James whines as Brock pulls away, though quiets when he's rewarded with the sight of the handsome man quickly shedding his combat pants and boxers. He's already hard James notes, cock flushed red and straining where it bobs against a taut stomach.

Rumlow leans over him to capture his mouth with his own again, kissing him mercilessly and leaving it hard for James to catch his breath.

"Haven't been able to stop thinking about you pretty one."

Deft fingers trace over James' sides, mapping his ribs one by one with sharp nails. Not pressing hard enough to be really painful, but electrifying against his sensitised skin.

"Thinking about you with him. Did you enjoy it princess..? Did you scream his name?"

James nods and moans into Brock's mouth, the other man swallowing the sound with the quick press of lips. He tweaks James' right nipple and listens to how the other man whimpers; then does the same to the other.

"Speak to me pet. Did you enjoy it?"

James nods again, but this time manages to bite out a quick gasp of "Yes, daddy" as Brock brushes a careful hand over his straining cock, still trapped beneath the black fabric of his boxers.

James wants so badly right now. Needs something, anything, to ease the building pressure inside of him.

Rumlow hums, burying his hand in James' hair and using the leverage to pull his head back; baring his throat for him to bite and lick at. "Did you come for him, my darling? Come while riding his hard cock?"

James keens as Brock bites down particularly hard at the juncture of his throat and shoulder. He resists the urge to cry out, gasps "Yes, daddy."

"Hmm, not sure I like the sound of that to be honest sweetheart. You're mine you see."

Rumlow's possessiveness does strange things to James' body. He's never felt so owned by one of his johns before, but Brock is different. Has always been different. James has always been happy to put himself in the older man's capable hands.

"The thing is poppet, Daddy is feeling a little neglected by you. So I thought maybe I'd invite a friend."

James hears the door click open somewhere off to his left, he can't see where Brock's weight is pinning him down, but he knows it's Jack who has just entered.

\--

He lays still as Brock teases over his chest and stomach with his tongue, carefully flicking at the sensitive skin. It's hard to concentrate on anything but that warm mouth, but he can hear the dull thud as Rollins' belt and trousers land on the carpet, the flutter as he pulls a t-shirt off over his head.

Jack enters his line of sight as he wanders over to join them, perching on the edge of the bed to Brock's right, and looking down at James.

"Seems to me poor Rummy is feeling a little neglected James.. That's your fault I believe..?"

James doesn't protest, in reality he knows that Brock sent Steve to James, but he's not going to argue with either man right now.

Jack lifts a length of leather cord and a knife up where James can see them, he must have brought them with him. He reaches out deftly slices through the satin binding his wrists, before tossing it to the side and catching them in his strong grip.

James moans with loss as Rollins uses his leverage on his wrists to pull him away from Brock's clever mouth; drags him up the bed and wraps the leather tight around his wrists and the bar at the top of the headboard. so James is forced to kneel to avoid cutting off the circulation.

Jack tilts his head up with a hand on his jaw so he can look him in the eyes.

"So, poppet.." His voice is mocking, it doesn't sound as sweet as when Brock uses that name. "Since poor Brock here is feeling a little left out, I figured you can just watch while I take care of him the right way.."

James has to swallow down a groan at the mental image that conjures up. He has no way of getting any friction on his dick bound up like this, and now he has to watch the two handsome men he'd much rather were fucking him screw each other senseless.. Fantastic.

The douchebags could have at least gotten him off first.

Jack scoops Brock up, letting the other man wrap his legs around his waist and wind arms around his neck as he claims the other man's mouth. The two men are fierce with each other, all fingernails digging into soft skin and harsh nips where their lips meet.

Jack lays the other man down on his back in front of where James is strung up like a piece of meat. Not letting the other man loose his hold on him, he braces his hands and knees on either side of Brock, and presses their hips together as he bites down on the other man's lower lip.

James moans at hearing the noises that escape Brock's pretty mouth.

Jack is relentless, and Rumlow seems to be loving it. Neither men penetrate the other of course, James thinks neither of their fragile masculinities would allow for that, but Jack takes both their cocks in a firm hand as he swirls his tongue over first one dark nipple, then the other.

He brings Brock right to the edge and leaves him there; all lean lines of muscle taut as he groans and snarls. If he wasn't so sure that both men desperately wanted this, James could almost think that they were fighting, or that one of them was torturing the other.

Rollins runs a single sharp canine tooth down the centre of Brock's stomach, the soft skin tight over stained muscles, and dips his tongue into Rumlow's belly button. James can't look away as Brock gasps and throws his head back, eyes dark and wanting meet his own pale blue.

James whines as his hips jerk involuntarily; just watching the two of them tangled like a dance is enough to keep his cock red and leaking, standing proud from his stomach. He can't get any closer though, and his need eats away at his insides, renders him incapable of coherent thought. Can only watch, can't even look away, as his Brock is taken to pieces by his best friends capable hands.

Rollins' own eyes are glassy as he traces his partners skin with rough fingers; smooths Brock's dark hair away from his face and cups his jaw almost tenderly as he pulls him in for a kiss, jerks their cocks together for the final time.

When Brock comes it's Jacks name on his lips and James feels jealousy stirring in the bottom of his stomach. Thoughts of blue eyes framed with pretty lashes and blonde hair like sunshine are momentarily forgotten as he watches the two men in front of him curl around each other. Pretty words pressed into sweaty skin, hands soothing tired muscles.

James is left watching and wanting, and oh how he wants.


	7. In which Steve does a little creeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg Daddy loves you all, you complete me. Can we have a polyamourous dumpster marriage already in which trash fandom comes together to get down and spend the rest of eternity creating beautiful fic and making painfully sweet love? That would be great. 
> 
> Warning for Steve being a creeping creeper who creeps and minor privacy violations. Not as bad as it sounds, maybe. 
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Hearts a mess" - Gotye  
> • "Searching" - China Black  
> • "I'm on fire" - Bruce Springsteen
> 
> Helpful playlist here:   
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

It starts off fairly innocently; Steve can't get the memory of sea glass eyes so blue they burn like frostbite out of his head, can't forget the way velvet lips and smooth skin felt against his own. It's driving him mad, and he's spent an entire week now on edge; his skin is overly sensitised all. the. damn. time. and every time he closes his eyes he's rewarded with a flash of dark hair and tanned muscles. He thinks he might be losing his mind.

He thinks he'd not mind so much if not for the fact that the face tormenting his subconscious is so familiar. Almost like he should be able to turn his head to the left slightly and see those beautiful eyes looking back at him.

It's infuriating and ridiculous, and Steve spends the entire week in a state of almost arousal that no end of cold showers seems to be able to fix.

It really doesn't help that he doesn't manage to pin Rumlow down for a conversation all week; considering he and and the rest of STRIKE team Alpha are the only connection he has to the shadowy club and the gorgeous stranger that's haunting him. Steve doesn't have any reason to be interacting with the others though, and he's well aware it would be strange for him to go hunt one of them down in his quest for more information about a hooker. Especially since the non-disclosure agreement that he signed forbade visitors to the club from talking about its existence in public. Steve has to wonder why all the secrecy measures, but presumes it's for the protection of the clubs patrons more than anything else. He recognised a few important people during the brief time they spent in the bar area, and it really wouldn't do for one of the working boys or girls at the club to go splashing hot gossip on any number of trash media sites.

At some point the realisation hits Steve that Rumlow isn't just busy, he's actually outright avoiding him. He doesn't notice straight away of course; Monday he's assigned for an analysis session with the senior agent, going over intelligence in preparation for designing future missions, and Rumlow ducks out of it claiming that something has come up at the MoD that requires his attention as Commander of STRIKE. Steve is still new around around here so he writes that off as possibly a routine occurrence; Rumlow getting called away because he's needed for something more important.

Tuesday he's supposed to have sparring practice with him in the morning before his meeting with Fury, and Rumlow doesn't show. Steve waits the allotted hour in the gym and goes through a few weight training sets on his own. After a brief flash of annoyance he writes it off as Rumlow not realising his schedule has been updated, after all, Steve only started working with S.H.I.E.L.D two weeks ago. He's been nothing short of helpful up until now, and it was awful nice of him and his team to invite Steve out with them on Saturday - even if dive bars and brothels aren't his usual haunts.

By Wednesday he's starting to see a pattern though; he and Natasha are heading up to Fury's office for another candidate shortlisting session - deciding which of the possibilities on the list they put together last week are actually going to be called in for assessment - when he spies Rumlow walking away from them in the opposite direction. Turning left down a fork in the corridor when he and Natasha are headed right towards the elevators. Steve wouldn't have thought anything of it, if not for the fact that Clint had already mentioned he would be at the shooting range for weapons training with STRIKE Alpha all morning - and the range is back down the corridor the way he and Natasha just came. Rumlow had obviously seen them coming and turned tail.

Steve doesn't dwell on it for very long though, because until he allowed himself to be distracted he was in the middle of a conversation with Natasha about the airman Sam Wilson that Steve wants on the final list, and she's giving him this look that says 'where are you?'. He flushes when he realises he's fallen silent mid-sentence, picks up where he left off even though he really wants to say 'I don't know, in some fancy building downtown maybe.'

Thursday Steve thinks Rumlow cannot possibly avoid talking to him, because all of the STRIKE teams bar Beta are assembled for a mock mission in the largest of the gymnasiums. A blonde haired woman identified only as Agent 13 is tied to a chair in the middle of the hall, bound, gagged and blindfolded, whilst Gamma play the role of her captors and interrogators. Teams Alpha and 'Delta + Steve', he can't think of them as the Avengers yet, not when it's only the three of them, are to infiltrate 'the building' and take out Gamma with non-lethal force.

Unfortunately for Steve, a mock mission means mission standard protocol and nothing is discussed outside of the mission parameters. After they finish up for the day and weapons and tac gear are cleaned, tagged and stored, it's only when he's looking around for Rumlow to corner him that he realises the man has already slipped away out of the double doors unnoticed.

By Friday, and the end of his third week working at the Triskelion, Steve thinks he might just actually self implode in all kinds of messy, nasty ways; and so it's a relief when Fury calls him that morning and tells him to head over to SI. Tony Stark can be rude and annoying, and he sure has a motormouth on him that doesn't know when to shut up, but Steve needs a distraction right now.

\--

Tony meets Steve in the lobby of Stark Industries Washington DC headquarters; it's his third time here now but each time he's visited Steve has regarded the building with awe. It's not the biggest building on the skyline here, and nothing compared to the New York tower that's displayed in black and white aerial shots mounted on the wall in the lobby, but everything is so modern and high tech looking.

There's an army of staff here in clothes cut in straight tailored lines, and Steve already loves the little cleaning robots that zoom around polishing and vacuuming things. He thinks his fondness for them isn't helped by the fact that Stark treats them like little robotic dogs; they come when called and click and whirr when Steve pays attention to them. He never would have thought it was possible to look at a machine and think it cute and playful, but there isn't really any other way to describe the helpful little bots. Steve already has a favourite, it makes a beeline for him each time he enters the building and sets to polishing his shoes for him as he tries to avoid tripping over it.

Tony immediately drags him away to his lab above the R&D level, he's spent the last three weeks working on designs for weapons and tech that he hopes will eventually be approved for Avengers use, and wants to talk Steve through the specs. Steve hasn't got a clue what he's supposed to be looking at when shown wire frame holographic renderings of everything from shock bracelets to escrima sticks, but he figures out quickly that if he just nods and smiles Tony doesn't realise that Steve is clueless as to what he's talking about.

It works out pretty well all things considered.

By lunchtime Tony seems to have exhausted things to talk about to do with his new tech and Steve considers whether or not to ask the question that's been bugging him all morning.

Tony gives him an assessing look, filled with no little amount of mirth; "what bug has bitten your butt, oh Captain mine..?"

Steve groans and drops his head into his arms where they're folded on the workbench in front of him. "I heard from Natasha that you're a sneaky shit that keeps getting into stuff that you're not supposed to know about?"

Tony's eyebrows knit together and he frowns over at Steve. "Yeah, so what, you've been told to get me in line? Because let me tell you Cap, no one has managed that yet."

Steve laughs and shakes his head. "Actually I want your help getting into something I'm probably not supposed to."

Tony blinks at him, mouth agape, and then suddenly is clutching his sides trying to hold in his laughter. "Oh shit Cap, I'd never have put it past you."

Steve levels a glare at him; "I thought we'd already established I'm not as prissy as you thought I'd be..?"

Tony shakes his head and waves him off, not silencing his laughter but he seems to be getting over it. "Yeah, yeah of course. Plus, flattery will get you everywhere, and I am a sneaky shit as you so eloquently put it. What is it you need? Secret tech? Nuclear launch codes?"

Steve looks at him a little non-plussed, "please, never mention nuclear launch codes again. But no, I just want to find someone."

Tony looks a little put out at that. "Well I could get you launch codes, but if all you want is a little dating advice, I suppose I can manage that. I mean, I am practically Romeo and Casanova all rolled into one."

The glare Steve aims at him could level buildings. "By find someone I mean locate another human being."

Tony is completely unaffected, and Steve makes a mental note to investigate other ways to install fear in Tony given normal-people methods don't seem to work.

"There is such a thing as a phone book you know.."

Steve shakes his head, "I only have a first name name. Tell me, what do you know of Club Hydra?"

At that Tony goes a little white and Steve wonders if he's made a mistake. NDAs exist for a reason after all and maybe even Tony has limits as to the secrets he will and won't spill. Steve gets the impression it's something a little more than that though.

The mad genius rolls his chair away from Steve's over to his main console, tapping and pulling up screens. "I don't want to tell you how I know about those people Steve. Let's just say I'd rather not discuss it, and I really don't want to know about it if that's the kind of place you frequent."

Steve stands and follows him over, resting a large hand on Tony's shoulder and trying to ignore the way the other man jumps a little. "Trust me, the kind of things I got the impression went on there.. Not really my thing. Each to their own though."

Tony relaxes minutely and Steve doesn't move his hand away. "Tell me you have a good reason for asking after them then..?"

Steve bites his lip; "Rumlow and STRIKE. I get the impression they're regulars. They took me last Saturday after we went to a bar. I uhm, saw a guy there."

The muscles in Tony's shoulders have stiffened again under Steve's hand and he really doesn't want to make the other man uncomfortable but it's hard to resist the urge to ask if he's okay. Ask what this is about.

Steve decides to just press on. "He looked.. Familiar. I can't explain it. I need to find him."

Tony shakes himself out, loosening tense muscles. "That I may be able to manage. Name?"

Steve tilts his head to one side. "James. I didn't get anything else. Looks about my age."

Tony is already clicking through databases. "If I know Hydra I know he's probably working for the government in some kind of official capacity. They have to have a reason to have them on the payroll after all. It might not be a real name though."

"It is." Tony looks up at him questioning and Steve just shrugs. "I just know it is, okay? Humour me."

Tony nods and gets back to the screen, he soon has a shortlist of names.

"Okay so we've a Novak and a Pierce currently working as interns for the Secretary. I'd say one of those is your best bet."

Steve doesn't question him as to why that makes sense to Tony. The man always seems to know more than he lets on. "Pictures?"

Tony grins, it doesn't reach his eyes though. "Facebook Cap, heard of it..?"

Jimmy Novak is quickly dismissed; straight laced looking political major, a brunette with blue eyes yes, but not the right one.

Then they pull up James Pierce.

"That's him," Steve breathes, eyes fixed on the screen. The profile photo is a selfie with a bunch of other guys in sweaters and band shirts, and Steve quickly confirms that the guy is a college student.

Tony grins at him. "You owe me big time Cap. I'd warn you to be careful, he might be a relative of Secretary Pierce himself though I doubt it given.. The nature of his job. The fact he's interning for him.. It's possible I guess."

Steve nods but Tony is concentrating on the screen, already in the Georgetown database and Steve can't help but wonder if firewalls and passwords mean anything to the shorter man next to him.

"Art history major," Tony clucks sounding somewhere between disgusted and disappointed. "Minor in politics. So what, he's going to critically analyse politically significant artwork?"

Steve makes a face at him. "I'm a bit of an art fanatic myself, watch your tongue."

Tony stops and looks away from the screen, tilts his head to one side and regards Steve with that look he knows means Tony is analysing him. Then he tsks and turns back to his work. "Yeah Cap, I can see you'd be the type."

Steve gapes at him; "and what is that supposed to mean?!"

Tony ignores him, but before Steve can demand he reply the brunette is crowing with delight.

"Got his timetable, so untwist your panties oh Capitan. He has a renaissance class that finishes at four today, gives you two hours to get over there if you want to run into him after."

Steve sighs and drops his face in his hands, rubbing at stressed temples. Tony's efficient though, Steve will give him that. "Thanks Tony... I guess I owe ya."

The smaller man shrugs off his praise; "No problem, now get on your bike already and go say hey to lover boy there. I want details later."

Steve can't help but eyeball him. What so they're best buddies now? Gonna braid each other's hair and gossip over boys? Steve thinks not, somehow. "You're not getting them."

"Even if I say pretty please?"

"Especially not then."

\--

Steve makes it over to the Georgetown campus in plenty of time and grabs himself a coffee while he waits.

He feels kind of stupid now he thinks about it, after all, if he was that desperate to see him wouldn't he just go back to Club Hydra where he knows the guy works?

But there's a few variables there that Steve can't account for; firstly, is he even welcome there by himself? He was Rumlow's guest last time after all, and the other man has been avoiding him all week. Secondly, and most importantly in Steve's eyes, is that Steve genuinely just wants to talk to him. He can't close his eyes without seeing the spectre of ice blue, and he especially can't get over the idea that he somehow knows this man. He highly doubts normal club attendees go there just to talk.

He waits until quarter to four and then moves to a bench on the quad outside the entrance to the lecture hall. He tries to be inconspicuous about waiting for someone as he sips his coffee and thumbs through a random novel that someone had left on the trade-in shelf at the cafe. He's dressed casually enough in sneakers and a pair of black jeans, and he'd pulled a hoodie on over his Henley after leaving Stark's building. He figures he blends in well enough with everyone else around here that no one will bother him.

He only has to wait ten minutes before people start to stream past him, most of them are a good 5 or 6 years younger looking than himself, but he's baby faced enough that no one pays him any attention. Much as he feels like it, he isn't actually a creepy old guy hovering outside some high school.

He catches a flash of brown and blue out of the corner of his eye and looks up, mock surprise on his face as his eyes meet James'. It does funny things to Steve's stomach that the other man actually looks happy to see him there, if a little shocked.

"Steven! What are you..?" He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth and Steve tries to ignore it. Pretend that it isn't making his face heat and that his eyes aren't drawn to it. After all, he's willing to be anything that James keeps these two halves of his life very separate.

"Work?" Steve shrugs with one shoulder, hoping that's vague enough that James will accept that as an excuse. After all, if Brock and the others are both regulars and as VIP as they seem, James has to have some kind of idea the kind of 'work' they are involved in. It's entirely plausible that Steve could be sent to investigate someone on a college campus.. Maybe. Well, vaguely plausible.

James raises one eyebrow suspiciously but sighs and drops onto the bench beside him. "So uhm, how are you..?"

Steve smiles at him; "I'm good. Was actually just finishing up for the day."

James gives a tentative smile back; "oh, well, it's good to see you again," he breaks off and flushes, and Steve is nearly overcome with the desire to reach up and smooth away the lines of worry from his face. "I mean."

"It's okay," Steve bumps his shoulder with his own, watching as the shorter man dips his head, letting his bangs fall in front of his eyes. "It's nice to see you too." James is smiling now.

"I was actually kind of hoping to see you again sometime soon," James looks like he wants to crawl in a hole and die as soon as he's said it. "I don't mean like that!" He hurries.

Steve just smiles good naturedly, he's not going to let James' embarrassment stop them from having this conversation. "I know what you mean, me too."

James looks up at him confused, more than a little hopeful; Steve continues. "I mean, you kind of look really familiar to me. It's been bugging me all week."

James laughs at that - and it's such a pretty sound Steve wants to hear it over and over.   
"No I get it. I thought the same."

Steve looks surprised at that, but pleased nonetheless. Thank god for confirmation he isn't actually loosing his mind.

James checks his watch and startles, "oh hey, I'm actually supposed to be meeting my friend now, she and I are going out tonight. But maybe we could..?"

Steve feels something uncoil a little in his chest, it feels a little like hope. "Maybe um, I don't know, coffee sometime?"

James' eyes are such a brilliant blue when he smiles, Steve feels he's about to swoon like a teenage girl in some sappy romance novel. "Yeah, Steve that sounds.."

"James!!" They're cut off all of a sudden and both turn round in unison to see a fiery red head stood ten feet away from them, arms crossed.

"Natasha?!" Steve speaks first.

She's giving him a funny look and Steve is pretty sure his blush goes from the top of his right to his toes. She ignores Steve in favour of berating James, she's smiling a little though. "You kept me waiting."

James looks abashed, "sorry, I got a little caught up here."

Natasha looks scary when she turns her attention to Steve. "I'll bet. Aren't you supposed to be with Stark today going over specs..?"

Steve looks a little like a rabbit in the headlights. "Um.."

All of a sudden James' gaze is sharp as he turns back to Steve. "You mean you weren't here with work then..?" It looks like something clicks in his head, and he sneers and stands. "I should have guessed. It's okay Natka we can go now. I was just a little busy explaining to Steve why I won't be seeing him again. Done now."

Steve feels a little sick at that, but it's nothing compared with the look Natasha is sending his way.

"I'll see you Monday, Rogers."

It sounds more like a threat than a promise and Steve can't help but feel like he really fucked up as he watches the two of them stalk off angrily in the direction of the car park. With the looks on their faces and matching black leather jackets, if Steve were in a better mood right now the thought of "murder twins" that flashes through his head would probably be a little funnier.

As it is, he feels like he might have just really fucked up in more ways than one.


	8. In which James seeks comfort with Daddy and his best boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve being a creepy creeper who creeps leaves an intimidated James running straight into the arms of HYDRA's elite. He just doesn't understand Steve wants what's best for him poor baby :(
> 
> This one is a little longer as a gift Hally_K for being so patient with me! We finally get to learn more about Bucky's past and how he met Pierce. Also the song choices are quite important this time. As always the link to the playlist for the fic is below.
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Don't let me fall" - B.O.B  
> • "Ghost" - Halsey  
> • "JFK" - Lana del Rey (unreleased track) (this will be my Pierce/Bucky track forever. He did give him a name T.T )  
> • "Love in the City" - Lissie
> 
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

  
Natasha doesn't ask him questions at first; when they get to the car he slings his backpack in the back, and spends the next half an hour leaning against the window with his eyes closed while she weaves through rush hour traffic.

He knows it won't last and eventually the expected interrogation comes; "Care to explain?"

She keeps her eyes on the road and James is grateful for that, can't look her in the eye while he talks. "Is he the new guy you're working with?"

Natasha nods and James feels something twist in his gut. He rubs a tired hand over his face; "thought you said he was a good guy..?"

Natasha shrugs, doesn't move her eyes from where they're fixed on the road in front of her. They're nearly home now, just a couple of blocks. "Still not sure he isn't. What was that?"

James looks over at her and finally her green eyes meet his own; "We've.. You know. Last weekend. And I didn't tell him I was at Georgetown or anything. He acted like he was running into me casually, told me he was there with work."

Natasha tsks in her throat. "He was with Stark today, the guy who makes the cellphones and weapons, he has a gift for getting his nose into things it has no business being in. It would be easy enough for him to track someone down."

James bites his lip at that and lets his head fall back against the window. So Stark has the power to blow all of this open. There's only a fine line separating the two parts of his life as it is.

He feels Natasha's gaze on the side of his head and tries to pull himself together, after all, the whole point of this is keeping the fragile family arrangement he's built for himself away from.. From everything else.

Natasha continues; "so he wanted to see you?"

James nods "yeah, dinner, coffee whatever. Didn't really give him a way to find me so I guess he worked that out all by himself."

He sounds bitter even to his own ears, tries to stop his mouth curling up in a sneer. And really, James thinks if it wasn't for how they'd met, if it wasn't for the fact that the two parts of his life are bleeding closer together, he wouldn't mind so much. If Steve was just Natasha's gorgeous work colleague, and she'd invited him along on a night out with James and Clint and they'd hit it off.. Maybe then it would have been okay. But not like this, never like this.

He needs to see Pierce.

"Nat?" His voice is a little hoarse when he talks, a little choked.

She pull over outside his apartment, turns to face him with concern written across delicate features. He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at it.

"Can we maybe take a rain check on tonight?"

"Of course, James. Whatever you need." Her voice is as relaxed as ever, if he were anyone else they wouldn't notice the way it's softened slightly.

He opens his eyes so he can look at her properly, impress upon her that he appreciates her not pushing the matter and demanding to know why. "Thanks."

She shakes her head; "you don't have to thank me for that. Just, call me if you need anything?"

He nods, pulls her in for a quick hug, breathes in the smell of vanilla of her soft red hair as it tickles his nose. "Yeah." His voice is tight and he's glad he's not looking at her when he says it. He's so grateful that Nat exists. That he has people to care about him now.

She gives him a final squeeze back, small frame belying her strength, and he grabs his bag from the back seat. Waves as she drives away before he pushes open the door to his building.

He puts a pot of water on when he gets in, brews his tea black and strong and curls up on the couch, wrapping his hands around the mug to warm them. Talking to Natasha has made this both better, because okay maybe Steve genuinely did just want to see him again even if he did handle that wrong, but also so much worse. Never mind him not telling her exactly how he met Steve, what if she questions Steve when she sees him in work on Monday? If Steve is responsible for bringing down everything James has built for himself, never mind how pretty his eyes are, James won't even ask Natasha to kill him - he'll do it himself.

He really needs to talk to Pierce. He sighs and grabs his phone from his bag, and fires off a text to Alexander.

"Problem; Brock brought a friend last weekend. Friend asked Tony Stark to track me down, think he finds me pretty, me as in James Pierce. He waylaid me on campus, Natasha saw us together."

He hits send and hopes that Pierce realises the implications of this; aside from the fact this could blow out the Clubs cover entirely if Natasha and media magnet Stark know about it, his identity could also be compromised.

James has been perfectly happy for the last two years being James Pierce, Art History and Politics student at Georgetown. He doesn't need anyone, especially not his dear Natasha, to find out anything more.

He wonders for a moment if she would understand; after all, she has only been Natasha Romanoff since she was brought in by S.H.I.E.L.D, Natalia Alianovna was left behind in Russia, just as James Buchanan Barnes was.

All he'd ever wanted was a way home.

James find himself outside the club an hour later, he's not supposed to have an appointment until 8pm but Alexander had demanded he be there by six sharp. James is edgy as he slips up the back stairs, his nerves won't settle and it's giving him an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

He heads straight to Pierce's study where the man is sat at his desk looking over a pile of papers, a glass tumbler with ice and amber liquid in hand. "James. Please, take a seat."

He gestures across from him and James slips into the seat carefully, trying to gauge Pierce's mood from the frown lines on his face and the tense set of his shoulders. He can never get a good read on him though.

"What seems to be the problem here? Do you think that this Rogers is about to go asking around about HYDRA? Getting Anthony Stark to poke his nose in where it doesn't belong..?"

James folds and unfolds his hands restlessly where they're hidden in his lap. "I.. I don't know, sir."

"You don't know..?" Pierce raises an eyebrow and the look he gives James makes clear his displeasure.

James tries not to shrink under his gaze, keeps his back straight but lowers his eyes in deference. "I think Steve wanted to see me again, that's all. I get the impression Brock wasn't about to ask him to come again anytime soon, and.." James shrugs, he doesn't know what either the men are thinking if he's being honest.

"Well then.." Pierce rests his elbows on the table and clasps his fingers below his chin with an air of finality. "It seems to me that you give this Rogers what he wants. Give him a way to see you again, and when you do, make it clear he isn't to discuss you or HYDRA outside of our.. Trusted circle."

James restrains the shudder that tries to creep down his spine. "Sir, I.. I wasn't comfortable with what he did today."

Pierce fixes him with an intense gaze, brow furrowing; "are you defying a direct order James..?"

James hurriedly shakes his head, blue eyes wide meeting Pierce's own. "No! No sir I.. I'll do whatever you deem necessary."

Alexander nods as though the matter is decided. Maybe it is. "Good, find a way to keep him quiet or I will."

James swallows, that sounded like a threat rather than a promise. "Y-yes sir."

Alexander smiles then, it's not a kind smile and James finds it makes him feel a little uncomfortable. "Good boy. With that all sorted, Brock is waiting for you, I'll be along later. Your other appointments have been cancelled for the rest of the weekend. Find a way to fix this before you come in Monday."

James nods and hurries to stand, Brock doesn't like to be kept waiting. "Thank you, sir."

Alexander gives him that smile again, the one that chills his blood a little. "Of course, James. I promised I would take care of you, did I not..?"

James can't help the small smile that steals across his lips. "Yes sir, you did sir."

Pierce nods, "and I intend to keep my word James. Do what is necessary to protect all I have given you here."

James finds himself lingering a little as he makes to leave; "yes, Sir. Always."

The older man dismisses him then with a pointed look towards the door, but James doesn't miss the fond look in his direction as he closes the mahogany door behind him.

His step is a little lighter as he heads down the hall towards the elevator; it's true, Alexander has given him more than he could have ever hoped for.

James had nothing when he first met Pierce, the man was in Moscow for a conference when he picked James up at a bar that he had only been lingering at so late because he had nowhere else to go out of the cold. The night had been slow for him, and he wasn't about to risk the chill of the Russian winter stood on a street corner at that hour.

Alexander had bought him drinks, talked with him for hours about silly irrelevant things and taken him to a lavish hotel room where he'd spoiled him rotten with expensive food and a luxurious soak in a bath scented with rose oil. James hadn't known who he was at the time, the US Secretary, he hadn't been long in office when James had been in the military - before he'd disappeared into the snow 5 winters before.

Alexander had given him a chance to return home, a new life with a new identity. He owes him everything.

James slips into his dressing room and discards his clothes quickly; pulls his hair up on top of his head and pins it there before wrapping himself in a red silk robe. He wants to look good for Brock tonight, chase away the errant ghosts of blonde and blue that linger at the edges of his thoughts.

Brock and Pierce can help him forget himself, forget everything, which is exactly what James needs right now. He needs to let go.

\--

Brock is still dressed when he enters, laying back on the middle of the bed studying the ceiling as though the secrets of the universe are written there.

He looks over at him, eyes darkening as he runs them over James' lithe form clad in the red silk, licks his lips with the need to taste the skin hidden underneath.

James makes his way over and sits delicately beside him, humming appreciatively as Rumlow sits up and wraps strong arms around him from behind. Leans back against that sculpted body and allows his eyes to fall closed.

"Well, pet?" Brock's voice rumbles through him, James can feel the vibrations echo in his chest.

He feels himself smile and sigh, deep and longing; "Soon be fixed, sir. Just need to.. Not think for a while."

Rumlow nuzzles at the nape of James neck, his breath warm and soft as it tickles gently across his skin. "Now that sweetheart, that I can help with."

Strong arms scoop him up, and when Brock lays down he brings James with him, laying him over his chest so they're almost nose to nose. James blinks down at him, palest blue meeting warm brown; they're a similar height and as always he's surprised how easily the other man can manhandle him.

"I'm going to take real good care of you poppet." Brock's voice is deep and sensual, and when he smiles it's not as feral as the previous time they were together like this.

James leans down and brushes his lips over the other man's, sweet as you like. Brock rumbles in appreciation, leaning up to press his forehead against James' own.

James winds his arms around the older man's neck and leans into the touch; this is nice. Warm and comfortable. Brock is obviously in a good mood today, it's going to be one of those days it seems.

They stay like that for a few minutes, eyes closed and breathing softly against each other whilst the older man's hands skim feather light up and down James' back and over his sides. He thinks he could fall asleep like this, but even if he was allowed he wouldn't want to - wouldn't want to waste these stolen precious moments when he can pretend that Brock cares for him. That this isn't a part of their dance, the game that they play; that one day soon Brock is going to take him home at the end of an evening and fix him breakfast in the morning. James wonders for a minute if he would if he asked. Definitely not.

Brock cuts off his thoughts with a kiss, not too demanding, but enough to bring his attention back to the present; "You're drifting sweetheart.."

He doesn't sound annoyed, affectionate if anything, and James blinks down at melted chocolate eyes and smiles; "no, I'm right here."

He presses down in a searing kiss, to reassure Rumlow that his thoughts and attention are entirely with the other man laid out beneath him. On the lean body whose hard lines of muscle are tense against James' own relaxed form.

Brock's stomach muscles clench before it happens and so James is expecting it when the older man sits up suddenly; he keeps his arms still looped around Rumlow's neck even as the rest of him goes tumbling back into his lap. James laughs into the kiss, velvet lips moving gently against Brock's own, and he wraps long lithe legs around the other man's waist.

Brock groans and grinds up against him; James can easily feel from their current position how hard the other man is, and he's suddenly reminded of how Rumlow is wearing far too many clothes.

James moans wantonly as he presses his ass down against Brock's cock, and as he feels the other man's grip on his hips slacken he takes the opportunity to tug the other man's dark tshirt up and over his head. Tossing it to one side he grins down at Brock and his now exposed torso; free for James to nip and suck and explore and worship.

Rumlow grins back, eyes darker now with want, and when he tugs James back in for another kiss, reeling him in with a hand on the back of his neck, it's a lot wilder this time round.

No more soft presses of lips and gentle hands, now it's an exploring tongue and nips at his bottom lip whilst nails run carefully up and down his back. He kisses like he wants to devour James. James would gladly let him.

The hand that Rumlow winds between them and uses to tweak James' nipple comes as a surprise; and the younger gasps with the shock and tilts his head back - leaving the long line of his throat exposed for Brock to bite and suck at. He works his way up from James clavicle and finishes with nibbling a line along his jaw, and James barely notices until he's done that there's now a hand rubbing over his cock where it's nestled between folds of red silk. He is far too easily distracted by the tongue and teeth of the handsome man sat grinning up at him.

James laughs and leans forwards for another kiss, is surprised when Brock puts a hand up to stop him. "Enough of that now sweetheart."

James makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, pouting down at the other man who only shakes his head and taps a finger off the end of James' nose like he's chastising a naughty puppy.

"All this tumbling in the sheets like two young lovers.. It's not us." His eyes flash when he speaks and his voice is sharper than before.

James feels a flush cross his face and he nods, he's not sure if it's because he's embarrassed or if it's anything to do with the heat pricking behind his eyes. He blinks them clear, the blue that's clouded over coming back brighter as they slip into their usual roles. Brock winds a length of fabric around his head, ties it over his eyes not tight enough to cause pain, but enough that it won't slip anytime soon.

His hands are next and when he ties them in front of his body James' breath hitches because he knows what's coming next. It's not fear, no, this is good. This is what he needs.

Brock always knows exactly how to do this, to pull him out of himself for a while and give him that thing just out of reach; that quiet and calm that he just can't find when he's trapped inside his own head.

\--

When Alexander enters the room James can feel the change in atmosphere; he can sense the other man's presence like a force of nature, a change in the wind. He doesn't restrain the shiver that runs down his back; taut muscles trembling under the strain of his own body weight.

Brock has left him suspended by his wrists, attached to the bed frame above the headboard so his knees are barely brushing the mattress where he kneels. The anticipation hums in his body, energy restless beneath his skin.

He feels Alexander run his palm over his side and all of the small hairs on his back are on end, Brock must have moved away because as he feels the bed dip in front of him he knows it's Alexander kneeling there, resting his forehead against James' own.

He smiles and feels fingers trace the bow of his lips. It's been so long and James feels a whimper escape his throat before he even had a chance to stop it.

Sasha.

That's who Alex had introduced himself as, that winter in Russia two years ago now. My God has it been that long...?

James presses his forehead back against Pierce's own, seeking comfort and reassurance. Careful fingers smooth over his jaw, not calloused like Brock or the other agents, soft, smooth. James sighs into it, a different more intimate smile slipping across his features. He feels Alex's lips ghost over his own, a quick brush, nothing more, nothing less.

It had taken a few months to finalise everything, Alexander had needed to return to Russia a few times before everything was done, and then James Buchanan Barnes had shed the shell of his old life like a snake slipping it skin. James Pierce had landed in America the very next day, feet on American soil for the first time in 6 years.

A new name granted to him by the man currently mapping every inch of his skin with those careful hands, dancing over tanned flesh.

James remembers leaving the airport that day, hurried into a waiting car so no one would see his face, he'd wanted to stop for a few minutes though, pull over by the side of the highway and fall to his knees. Press his face to the earth and feel. Feel the lay of the land he'd gone to fight for, the land he'd lost. Traded for cold snow and grey skies.

He feels a soft breath slip from his mouth as lips brush over his stomach, soft hair ticketing at his navel.

Those first few weeks in America, in the arms of the man who had brought him home, had been the most perfect of all his life. He'd thought he'd finally found not just a way home, but a place to call home. And really he had, this here, this is his life.

This may be his job, but Alexander has given so much more than just a safe place to work far away from the cold Russian nights. Everything. All laid at his feet, gifts like stepping stones, follow the bread crumbs home like Hansel & Gretel.

James whimpers as hands trail lower and he hears the man in front of him him appreciatively. He gives himself over, goes limp leaning forwards against Alexander's body, gives himself entirely.

He trusts this man entirely, Alex will never lift a wrong finger against him he knows that. It makes it so easy to set himself free in these arms, let go of himself and let his mind float up and away.

James wishes he could get back what they'd had at first though; those nights in Russia hiding in dark hotel rooms with rich foods and good wine. Those nights here when he'd first come home; some of his favourite memories are in Alex' arms at his house here in Washington.

James lets himself forget everything, focus only on the moment here now. On Alex and then Brock coming over to join them. Puts himself in their hands and takes leave of his mind for that blissful place on the edge of conscience where the world can't touch him.

\--  
  
James is the only one in the room when he comes back to himself; limbs splayed out on the bed, naked and shivering slightly where the sweat has begun to cool. He resigns himself to getting cleaned up alone; with none of the careful attention from Alexander or, more likely, Brock that he was hoping for tonight. Sometimes those few precious moments afterwards are what James lives for, when the older man holds him tenderly in strong arms, washes his hair for him and attentively massages strained muscles.

James closes his eyes tight, this right now serves as a reminder; this is his job. No matter how he feels for Rumlow, no matter the torch his heart carries for Pierce, it doesn't really matter at the end of the day; the other man doesn't owe him anything and neither does Alexander.

He takes a minute to gather the strength back into his limbs before he stands, hissing as certain parts of his body protest the movement, and takes tentative steps over to the bathroom. He showers rather than bathes, resolving to get home as quickly as he can so he can climb into bed and loose himself in sleep.

The hot water soothes the ache in his arms and shoulders, and he leans with his forehead against the cool tiles whilst the spray washes the suds from his hair. He'll call Natasha when he gets in he decides, ask her to come over tomorrow for lunch so he can arrange to fix this little problem he's having with Steve.

Maybe he can FaceTime with Becca too he thinks, the smile that spreads over chapped lips filled with genuine affection. All of this was for his baby sister, and he's going to make the most of the opportunities he has to see her and talk to her. After six years without seeing her beautiful face or hearing her voice, the last two years have been worth everything he's had to give to get them. She'll always be worth it, and the adopted family he's found with Clint and Nat too is more than a bonus.

He just wishes he could find more than just familial love; someone to hold him at night, to stay with him until morning. To come home to after a long day, to play with his hair when he's tired and cuddle with him when he's sick. James may have found his way back to America, but it still doesn't feel like he's really home. It feels like he's living a life that isn't his.

When he gets into his apartment that night he looks around the familiar four walls, and thinks he's never felt so much like a stranger in a foreign land.


	9. In which Steve persuades James that not all love means surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the messages of love and support, I just want to do right by my vision and the trash party fandom as a whole! <3
> 
> Slightly longer chapter this time, as Steve and James are reunited under slightly better circumstances - and Steve has a lesson to teach him.
> 
> It's first date time, eeek.
> 
> Playlist:  
> • "Float on" - Modest Mouse (Landon Austin cover)  
> • "Come and get it" - Problem Child (because I watched The Bronze trailer. Oh Sebby.)  
> • "Sweet Disposition" - The Temper Trap  
> • "When can I see you again?" - Owl City  
> • "Never let me go" - Lana Del Rey (unreleased track)
> 
> Helpful playlist here:   
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

When he sees Natasha on Monday morning the look she sends him is enough to send shivers down his spine and makes him want to turn tail and hide. She looks casual enough, leaning against the counter in front of the coffee machine he was trying to get to, all languid lines visible beneath her skintight black tac suit. Steve knows it's a false sense of security, knows that every muscle in her body is coiled ready at a moments notice.

His suspicions are confirmed half an hour later; he's sparring first thing with her and Clint, and she must have filled the archer in on what happened Friday because the two of them are ruthless. They're both all flurries of kicks and punches and Natasha's devious little twists that make her impossible to pin. Steve is exhausted after half an hour just chasing after the two of them trying to land a solid blow.

By the end of the session Steve has lost count of how many times his body has been slammed to the mat, though his aching muscles are telling him far too many.

The two assassins seem to have worked a little of their anger at him out by beating him to a pulp though, and after Natasha calls time she offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet with more strength than her petite frame has any right to.

She fixes him with a piercing look, and Steve is aware of Clint poised to her left, ready to jump in if needed. Her tone sounds light when she speaks, almost friendly. Steve is well aware it's anything but. "How do you know James, Steve?"

It's at that moment it clicks for Steve that Natasha had no idea about James' day job. He's a little surprised, he's always thought that Natasha knows everything about everybody, but he's not about to throw the other man under the bus. Even if James wants nothing to do with him, Steve won't take that out on the gorgeous stranger - he must have reasons for keeping that part of his life secret after all.

Steve just shrugs, "we ah, frequent the same places if you catch my drift."

Natasha raises a single perfectly groomed eyebrow as she eyes Steve up. He tries to remain still under her gaze.

"And what are your intentions with James, Steve?"

He feels his cheeks heat a little and ducks his head awkwardly. "I just wanted to see him, ask him to dinner or for coffee, you know? I somehow don't think he wants to see me again now though.."

Natasha makes a noise of faint surprise deep in her throat, and Steve risks a glance up to where her and Clint are gazing at him with curiosity. Natasha is the one to speak; "I think there's a chance you're wrong about that, actually."

Steve's curious now and Natasha can obviously read it on his face. "I mean, you violated his privacy but.. most of the time people don't want to just invite James to dinner if you catch my drift." There's almost a challenge in those words, no matter how sweetly she speaks.

Steve feels his cheeks flame, and replies hotly; "it's not just about that. He has a gorgeous laugh and kind eyes, and if I'd like to find out more about him over dinner that's my business."

Natasha's laugh is cold but not cruel, it takes Steve by surprise. She nods in agreement though; "no you're right, what goes on inside your head is not my business. My brother is my business though, so if you have anything other than good intentions I will tear you limb from limb."

Steve can't contain his look of surprise. "Brother..?"

Natasha shakes her head like it's not important, maybe it isn't. "Not by blood, just in all the ways that matter."

Steve nods in understanding. He supposes it makes sense,certainly explains why Natasha and Clint look murderous this morning for him having upset James.

"I promise you Nat, I just wanted to get to know him better."

She sighs and nods, and something seems to change in her demeanour.

"Last weekend he couldn't even concentrate on brunch with me without slipping off into some dozy daydream, Friday he looked positively murderous, and Sunday.. Well. I know you have something to do with this, and I'm sure you're aware I'd rather see him how he was last weekend."

Steve nods quickly, though something funny blooms in his chest as he thinks of James smiling and being happy because of him. That's.. A nice thought.

"Hurt him again, I'll string you up and cut you down piece by piece." She's smiling sweetly and Steve doesn't doubt her words at all. He knows she's done it before, after all.

He startles when she presses a piece of paper into his hand, before sauntering away with Clint out of the gym. He'd go after them but he's already behind schedule and has to shower before his meeting with Fury.

He looks down at the piece of paper curiously, unfolding it and turning it over with careful fingers. Oh. He feels the warmth in his chest spread. A phone number, James' phone number he's going to assume.

He can't keep the stupid grin off his face as he tucks it in the pocket on his gym bag, and goes off to shower with a much lighter spring in his step.

\--

He sends a quick text on his way to Fury's office; debates over the contents the entire time he's in the shower first, of course. Nothing too serious, just a quick "I'm sorry about my behaviour last week, let me make it up to you sometime?"

He's not expecting a reply straight away so when his first phone buzzes twenty minutes into the meeting he can't contain the smile that wants to dance across his face. He forces himself to focus on Fury's words and not check his phone until after they're done, but as soon as he leaves the office he finds himself pulling his phone out eagerly.

"Didn't give you much choice.. I'm an elusive kinda guy ;) " - J

Steve barks out a laugh without meaning to, startling another agent walking in the opposite direction. He tilts his head in apology but doesn't remove the smile from his face. Heading towards the cafeteria for lunch, he moves slowly so that he can concentrate on tapping out a reply;

"Still no excuse. Besides, I have nothing to make up to you if you keep telling me it wasn't my fault.." - S

Steve pushes through the doors to the cafeteria and tosses a lazy salute back when Clint waves across from where he and Natasha are sat. Hopefully they worked out their issues with him this morning Steve thinks, it would really suck to lose the few friends he's made here. There's certainly something to be said for the therapeutic benefits of tag teaming the person who's pissed you off into a stranglehold.

He tucks his phone away and nabs a tray before joining the lunch queue. Steve just assumed that James would probably be busy with classes, so he isn't expecting it when his phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

"No you definitely need to make it up to me. Hey are you maybe free later? You can buy me milkshakes and pie. Going for dinner is so last century." - J

Steve doesn't even try to hide his stupid grin when he drops into the seat opposite Natasha and Clint. Natasha only looks vaguely homicidal now so Steve's going to chalk that up to a win.

"He asked me yesterday to give you his number because he thought maybe you got off on the wrong foot. Please don't prove him wrong."

Natasha's face remains blank as she continues cutting into her chicken and Steve nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

"I really didn't mean to freak him out Natasha." He goes for beguiling honesty, trying to catch her sharp green eyes with his own blue. "Neither of us had mutual friends that we knew of, and I just.. really wanted to see him again."

She nods and the corners of her mouth upturns little, "just don't mess it up. If you do, I'll mess you up."

Steve's pretty sure that's a promise and not an idle threat, but he smiles and nods anyway.

"Also you should probably text him back.."

Steve laughs and does just that.

"I'm done at 6 today, pick you up at 7? You can choose where." - S

By the time lunch has finished, and Steve is on his way to medical for his baseline health assessment, he has an honest to god date arranged. His first one in around 3 years. He wonders afterwards if the heart rate and blood pressure they now have on file as 'baseline' for him are just a little elevated.

\--

James is waiting outside his apartment building when Steve pulls up on the bike, and he has to take a minute fiddling with dials and the kickstand before he tries talking to him - just in case his breath comes out in a squeak. The younger man looks absolutely gorgeous clad in skintight black jeans, a grey v-neck, and a leather jacket. His hair is pulled up in a bun, but some of the strands around his face are trying to escape. Steve flips up the front of his helmet and smiles at him, finds that something flutters in his chest when it's returned.

"Do you know where you want to go yet?"

James is still smiling, small and easy in the light of the fall sunset, and Steve thinks he's going to have a hard time tonight resisting the urge to touch. Not even sexually, just silly things like brushing a thumb over the line of that perfect cheekbone, folding him into a gentle embrace when he's doing something like just standing there smiling at Steve, looking all soft and warm. Steve realises he's probably smiling at Steve because he's sat there in silence staring like an idiot; so he flushes and looks away, proffers the extra helmet that's looped over his arm ready.

James takes it with a small chuckle, and Steve feels the pink dusting his cheeks ease slightly. "I know a place, I'll give you directions."

James buckles the helmet before swinging on the bike behind Steve, and he flips the visor back down; both to hide his blush and so that he can pretend that James' strong arms wrapped around his middle, whilst he leans forwards against the well muscled line of Steve's back, aren't doing funny things to his stomach.

Steve is doing his level best to concentrate on the road, but he can't help but marvel at the feel of James' strong thighs pressed against his own, at the furnace like warmth at his back where James clings close with arms wrapped around his waist. He calls out directions whenever they get to intersections, and about ten minutes later they're outside a diner Steve has never seen before; he feels a certain sense of loss when James lets go of him and jumps off the bike.

"Best pie in DC!" James throws him a grin and a wink, and Steve can only follow him inside, helmet tucked under his arm. He thinks he'd do pretty much whatever James wanted to get him to keep looking at him like that.

They join the queue and Steve can't help the fond look sneaking across his features as he watches James; the other man has his face and hands pressed against the glass of the massive display cabinet at the counter, eyes wide with wonder. There has to be at least 20 different types of pie, and if Steve wasn't doing his best to be a responsible adult he'd probably be right there with him.

James still hasn't decided by the time they get to the till; so Steve orders apple pie with cinnamon (sometimes the classics are the best), and orders James one slice of cherry and one of peach because he definitely didn't look set to make a decision between the two anytime soon. James gives him an abashed and slightly guilty look but Steve just laughs and bumps his shoulder with his own, making the smaller man laugh; they settle in comfortably side by side sipping their strawberry shakes and leaning against the counter whilst they wait for their orders to be plated.

When they've been served they take a window booth, Steve watching and trying to contain a smile at James' multiple plate and shake balancing act. The sounds he makes as he pops the first bite of cherry in his mouth are unreal though, and that quickly wipes the smile from Steve's face. Instead a light blush dusts his cheeks and he tries not to bite his lip.

James must notice though, and he laughs; it's a real full bodied laugh, he tosses his head back and his shoulders shake with it slightly; "sorry, I'm sorry Stevie. Eating pie for me is like foreplay, you know?"

The other man's grin is wicked and Steve catches sparkling grey blue eyes with his own, pokes his tongue out at James; "since we're already eating dessert you're not gonna need any later though. So.. This is kind of the main event."

Steve winks and James flushes a fantastic shade of pink, normally he'd call him on that but right now Steve is a little preoccupied trying to work out exactly what the use of "Stevie" just did to his insides.

James is laughing now though and Steve raises an eyebrow in curiosity, the brunette shakes his head, still smiling. "Natasha said you were kind of a sassy asshole, I want sure whether or not to believe her."

Steve can't help it and pulls a funny face at him; "so are you," he helpfully points out.

James smile turns into a smirk, and he rests the end of his spoon on his lip in a way that Steve is sure is deliberately teasing. "But everyone expects it of me. You, however, look like a clean cut golden child. I mean, c'mon you're literally eating apple pie right now."

Steve laughs, a full-bellied thing that has the people at the next table looking over at them. He feels brave all of a sudden and reaches out with one hand, tracing his finger tips gently over the back of James' hand where it lies on the table between them; "It has cinnamon in; means it's a little spicier than first appearances."

James has a funny expression on his face, caught somewhere between surprise and delight, and Steve feels something warm curl in his chest when the younger man flips his hand over so he can tangle Steve's fingers with his own. "How are you even real?"

Steve feels almost uncomfortable under the weight of James' gaze, which now borders somewhere on the edge of disbelief and adoration, so he shrugs his shoulders and looks down at the table so he doesn't have to meet the brunettes eyes. "I'm nothin' special."

The small smile playing at the corners of his mouth belies his happiness though, and so James just squeezes his fingers where they're entwined on the table in front of them. "Okay. You keep telling yourself that then."

James shrugs nonchalantly but Steve can see the challenge in his eyes. He grins and reaches out with his spoon, swiping a bite of James' peach pie.

The look of mock horror on his face is almost enough to make Steve laugh and break eye contact but he doesn't, couldn't look away for a minute even if he wanted to.

It's just so easy to talk to James, to listen to his stories about the kids in his class at college, about what Natasha and Clint are really like outside of work, about an art piece James is working on one of his classes. Steve thinks they could stay here for years and he wouldn't get bored of listening, the younger man talks with his hands and Steve has to lean back on more than one occasion to avoid getting speared by his fork, but the entire thing is so animated. He doesn't think he's ever met anyone so obviously alive, except perhaps for Tony.

James checks his watch after they've been there a while and startles, Steve looks at him questioningly. "I um, have ah.. work, at ten tonight."

An embarrassed flush creeps across James' cheeks and Steve gives him a reassuring smile. Much as his stomach wants to stir with jealousy at the thought of James with someone else tonight, it's really not Steve's place to judge what the other man does for a living - especially considering Steve has been there himself.

"I didn't realise it was this late," Steve looks a little abashed, "you'll have nearly an hour to get ready and get there if you let me drop you home now?"

James nods, looking shy all of a sudden. "That would be good, thanks."

Steve smiles back and grabs the two helmets abandoned on the seat next to him, passing one to James. "No problem, c'mon."

The ride home takes less than ten minutes this time; the streets are a lot emptier now that it's just after nine, and there is less waiting at lights. Steve finds himself disappointed by that when all too quickly they're pulling up outside James' building.

James looks hesitant when he passes Steve back the second helmet, shuffling nervously as though he wants to say something but cant quite spit it out. "Um, there's something I kinda want to talk to you about. Do you maybe want to come up while I get ready? I just need to grab my bag and stuff?"

Steve takes pity on him, "yeah sure, no problem."

"Great!" James smiles and it's infectious, they end up standing there for a few moments grinning at each other like fools before Jamess shakes his head and laughs, heading for the front door.

Steve follows him still with a stupid smile on his face. This feels.. Good. Easy. There's something comfortable about being around James.

\--

James' apartment is a lot more homely than Steve's. He's not bothered to decorate yet and it's very impersonal, which is in stark contrast to James'. There's Turkish rugs on the floor and plants in the corner, various nicknacks on every available surface. Steve plops down on the couch studying his surroundings whilst James busies himself in the kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove to boil. There's pictures on the walls, some are prints of artwork that Steve recognises, others are photographs of James with Natasha, Clint, and a pretty brunette girl who bears more than a passing resemblance to James himself.

James comes over to join him after a few minutes, passing a mug of tea to Steve as he settles beside him. One hand is wrapped around his own mug, and the other is playing nervously with zip on his jacket in what Steve has come to recognise as a nervous tic. James fiddles with things when he wants to say something but isn't sure how to say it.

Steve remains silent and waits whilst the slightly smaller man opens and closes his mouth a few times, as though he's unsure how to start.

"I just.. I really enjoyed this evening." He looks down at his mug, long eyelashes brushing sharp cheekbones and Steve feels that warmth in his chest again.

He reaches out and lays a comforting hand on James arm, stilling his nervous fidgeting. "Me too, maybe we can do it again sometime?"

The smile he gives Steve is brilliant, open and honest and perhaps a little hopeful. "Really..? I mean, of course you did. I am awesome after all." He throws Steve a wink and settles back into the couch cushions, tension draining out of him a little.

"I just, I wanted to ask a favour though..?" He bites his lip looking up at Steve, and Steve nods in encouragement.

"Please don't tell Natasha how we met?"

Steve looks surprised, but then, he'd already figured that perhaps Natasha didn't know what her 'little brother' did for a living.

"Of course," he gives James' forearm a squeeze where his hand is still resting there. "Despite my previous actions, you do have a right to privacy about your own life."

James is quite obviously relieved, and he sets his mug down on the coffee table in front of them before settling sideways to lean into Steve. Pulls his legs up on to the couch beside him.

Steve basks in the current attention and is careful not to move, in case James changes his mind about their current position.

"Thanks." The soft smile is more real than the earlier smirks that were tossed his way, and Steve gives in, draping a careful arm around James' shoulders where he's resting against Steve's side.

James hums low in his chest at the attention, resting his head against Steve's chest, flyaway hairs tickling at Steve's nose.  
"Maybe I could call into work sick if you wanted to stay and watch a movie or something?"

Steve blinks down at him in surprise, "would you not get into trouble? Cancelling last minute like that..?"

James shakes his head, and though Steve can't see his face he's pretty sure the younger man is smiling. "Nah, my ah.. Boss will understand."

Steve gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze where his hand curls around it, tries to avoid sighing when James nuzzles further into his chest. "A movie sounds great then."

James turns to beam up at him and nods, jumping to his feet. "Okay, back in five then."

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and goes into what Steve assumes is his bedroom, closing the door carefully behind him. Steve can't hear what he's saying, just the murmuring of a soft voice. It doesn't sound like he's being told off though so Steve is going to count that as a win.

A sudden ping in his pocket takes him by surprise and he sets his mug down to pull out his phone. Natasha.

"How's it going..?" - N

Steve can't help the grin as he quickly replies;

"Well, I think? We had pie and now we're going to watch a movie." - S

His phone buzzes again almost straight away;

"Be careful with him Steve? I'm asking as a friend, we don't talk much about it - God knows my past isn't something worth discussing - but he left Russia around the same time as me. Something happened there. He doesn't get romantically attached to people. At least, not easily." - N

Steve's interest is peaked now, Russia? James has an accent that's about as American as Steve's; granted its a pretty generalised east coast one, but there's hints of something underneath that remind Steve of his childhood in Brooklyn. But then, Natasha doesn't sound Russian.

He wonders if he'll ever get to find out what James was doing there. He types out a reply quickly;

"I'll be careful with him. I get the feeling I'm in this for the long haul if he'll let me." - S

He hits send and drops his phone back in his pocket as James re-enters the room; flopping down beside Steve and grabbing his mug back up. Steve lets him nestle his head back into his shoulder, smiling down at him as James looks up with hopeful eyes;

"I'm all yours for the evening, if you haven't changed your mind..?"

Steve hums thoughtfully, brushing the hair that's fallen over James' face back off his forehead.

"Guess we better make the most of it then."

The smile he's rewarded with is enough to take his breath away.

\--

They watch a couple of movies, but Steve wouldn't be able to say afterwards which ones. He spends most of the evening watching the light of the TV flickering over James' features where the smaller man is curled up against his chest.

Steve thinks he falls asleep around midnight, he wakes up just after one to James shaking his shoulder. Steve blinks up at him confused for a minute until he remembers where he is.

"Hello there sleeping beauty.." James is kneeling next to him on the sofa, cradling Steve's face in a careful hand, running his thumb over the line of his jaw.

"Hey.." Steve smiles back, eyes drooping slightly as he hums and leans into James' touch. James laughs and snuggles forwards draping himself over Steve's chest.

Steve brings an arm up to hold him in place, palm sweeping up and down his back; "I'm gonna need to head home James, I've work at 8:30am."

James grumbles protestingly and wraps his arms around Steve's middle, pinning him to the couch. "You could stay here? I have class pretty early too."

Steve sweeps his hair back where it's escaping from his messy bun. "All the more reason to let you get some sleep."

James pale blue eyes peer up at him through the dark, the only light reaching them is from the streetlight from outside, the TV long gone into standby mode. "You don't.. Want to? I understand, I'm sorry for assuming."

Steve shakes his head, and uses one careful finger to tug James' bottom lip away from where the smaller man is worrying it between his teeth. "James I want nothing more than to kiss you senseless right now, but can I be honest with you?"

James' breath hitches in his chest a little, and he goes still where he's balanced in Steve's lap. He nods carefully.

Steve smiles and leans forwards, pressing his forehead against James' own; "I would like to see you again, if that's what you want. But I'd like it to be about more than just sex."

James tenses and Steve prepares himself for rejection, he's not expecting the quiet whimper that follows; "how can you say that? Knowing my job, knowing what I do?"

Steve smiles up at him and cups his face between two strong hands, not letting James duck away and hide his face like he so obviously wants.

"Because I know there are two very different parts to your life James, and the fact you don't want them to mix only emphasises that. And, despite how we met James, I think I'd really like to be a part of the side that Natasha and Clint get to see. The shy guy who likes art, and collecting matryoshka which James you have a lot of those..."

James laughs then and Steve lets him duck his head and hide it against Steve's chest.

"Steve I don't.. The only way I know to show I care for people is.. You know. I don't know if I'd be any good at anything else."

Steve wraps his arms around him and holds him, allows James to hide his face against Steve's throat and gives him the privacy he thinks he needs right now.

"You sell your services James, not yourself. And caring, affection, love? They're not about giving yourself up to someone. They're about sharing, not surrendering."

James makes a quiet noise where he's held in the security of Steve's arms, and Steve stays quiet. Lets him think on that.

"I think I'd definitely like to see you again. You treat me like a person."

James sounds almost reverent and Steve feels something twist in his chest at that; he tightens his hold and nuzzles down into the mop of brown hair tucked under his chin.

"Because that's the only way you deserve to be treated. No one should ever make you feel like anything less. Now, I'm going to go home and you're going to go to sleep. But you can let me know later what you're doing this weekend."

Steve can feel James' smile where his face is pressed against his neck and he can't help smiling back.

"Okay." Comes the quiet whisper in the darkness, and Steve can feel his breath ghost over the sensitive skin of his throat. "Steve?"

Steve makes a questioning noise, eyes closed basking in the closeness of another body.

"I'm glad I met you. Really glad."

Steve chuckles softly, squeezing carefully before unwinding his arms from around James. He holds his gaze as the other man sits up; "me too James. Kind of feels like I already know you though, like it was just a matter of time."

The smile he gets in response to that is brilliant, and it's probably one of the hardest things Steve has ever done, to tear himself away and force himself to leave. Leave James to snuggle up in bed alone, thinking of things like destiny and two souls torn apart that were always supposed to knit back together.

I know you. I know the bones of you.

When he gets home he has the best nights sleep he's had in weeks; and this time blue eyes the colour of a mid-winter sky do not belong to ghosts, but to angels watching over his dreams. 


	10. In which Alexander ponders the merits of allowing James a reward for good behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will James be allowed off his leash for the weekend? Only if he's a very good boy first, but that should be easy right? Because James loves how he makes his boys feel. This chapter includes ahem, sexual activities, with Pierce just as a little pre-warning. Not perverted though, more emotional manipulation with a side of misplaced love; I never thought I'd break my own heart writing Pierce/Bucky. 
> 
> Oh god shatterspeed this is all for you, because don't think I don't notice you creeping and leaving kudos on a different one of my works each day of the week T.T ily and I'm sorry it's taken so long. 
> 
> This is a two part chapter again because I feel bad posting it so so late. I had major writers block towards the end of the chapter as to where I wanted to take the story. Music very carefully chosen and very important for this one, the songs chosen essentially wrote the fic for me.
> 
> The gaslighting gets a little deeper here, and another layer is added to James' past and his situation with HYDRA.
> 
> Playlist Part I:  
> • "Cecilia and the Satellite" - Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness  
> • "Wicked Games" - The Weekend  
> • "One last night" - Vaults  
> • "Your Life is a Lie" - MGMT
> 
> Playlist Part II:  
> • "Underneath it all" - No Doubt ft. Lady Saw  
> • "Victorious" - Panic at the Disco (my stucky song. Jesus some of the lyrics in this)  
> • "Freak" - Lana del Rey  
> • "America" - Paul Simon (Passenger, The Once & Stu Larsen cover)  
> • "When we were young" - Passenger 
> 
> http://youtu.be/4zXZGCLGfqY?list=PLP0NLsQ-tX3j5WjUOaJO45G1YRJ4QIatD

\--  
Part 1  
\--

James goes to class the next day and cannot for the life of him concentrate in his art history lecture; he gets as far as pulling out his notebook and writing "Tuesday, 19th September" in stylised font, then spends the next hour doodling in the margins. When the doodles turn into suspiciously beefy looking cartoon figures with shocks of spiky blonde hair, James sweeps all of his stuff back off of the desk and into his bag before he drives himself mad. The rest of the period is spent with him vaguely focusing on what the professor is saying whilst he sits on his hands; he figures it's the only way he'll be able to resist the urge to whip out his phone and fire off a message to Steve.

Steve. All American beefcake dreamboat who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ magazine or something. James had dreams about those thighs last night, Jesus Christ the things he would do to that man...

And therein lies the problem really, doesn't it? James allows his head to thunk forwards onto the desk and resists the urge to start tearing his hair out in exasperation. The professor pays him no mind, he's not the first student in the class to have done that this morning, though James is pretty sure the others just fell asleep. It is a 9am class after all.

"Keep him quiet", Alexander had said; make sure he doesn't go running his mouth about HYDRA or James to Natasha, or anyone else who may take an interest in his evening job. Don't allow Steve to blow your cover, then nobody ever has to know you weren't born James Pierce. Simples. Alexander could practically be the meerkat from that stupid car insurance website. Except, once again, James has to go and fuck everything up. He doesn't allow himself to utter the groan of frustration that he really wants to right now.

Alexander most definitely did not say develop an overwhelming infatuation with Steve, he did not say make sure he gets far enough under your skin that you go to bed and dream of blue eyes and apple pie. James really wants to text him about doing something this weekend.

The class finishes and James doesn't even notice until the guy sat next to him taps his shoulder politely, everyone's trying to leave and he's just sat there like some zombie blocking the row. James flushes slightly with embarrassment and apologises as he stands, ruffling his hair as he rubs the back of his head awkwardly. The guy just gives him a knowing smile; "It's a 9am class dude, it's okay, we've all been there."

James laughs and agrees and files out of the auditorium with the rest of the students. Okay he can do this, he can just get through his day today, and then he'll be seeing Rumlow tonight because it's a Tuesday. Brock's dark eyes and olive skin are so very very different from blues and golds that James will hopefully be able to sufficiently distract himself. He thinks about that for all of two minutes before he sighs and shakes his head. Really, who's he kidding..?

Brock and his admittedly fine as hell ass just aren't going to cut it right now. Steve doesn't just want to see him because he wants sex; Steve wants to get to know James as a person - and God, if that isn't the most amazing thing that has happened to him since he came back to America, James will eat his own fabulously stylish leather cap.

Things like this don't happen to James; beautiful guys with marble statue worthy muscles and legs for days telling him that they "don't just want him for his admittedly sexy as hell body", that they "want to get to know him". This is sappy teen romantic comedy levels of unrealistic bullshit, and oh, if he's not just eating it up like every tragic teenage idiot to ever grace the earth.

While he waits the hour before his next class and goes to sit in the on-campus Starbucks with a latte, James does the next best thing to throwing his hands in the air and asking God why, why him? He texts Nat and Becca.

Nat: "I have changed my previous evaluation of new guy. New guy is ridiculous, but also has the cutest butt." - J

Bec: "You, you are a teenage girl. What do teenage girls do when they can't concentrate in class, because all they can think about is pretty blue eyes and thighs that they really want wrapped around their neck?" - J

James turns his attention to his latte while he waits for one of them to text back. It's not the greatest coffee in the world but at the least the wifi in here is better than the campus wifi; he gets to watch three whole cat videos with no buffering before Natasha replies.

"'New guy' can't stop smiling, I thought Fury was going to have an aneurysm in our meeting this morning. Did you get up close and personal with said butt?" - N

James chokes a little on his latte and quickly replies with;

"No I did not! I am a classy bitch, ya really think I'm putting out on a first date?" - J

"You have no class whatsoever. You eat cereal from the box. Also I know you want to climb him like a tree, it's okay, everyone does. Spill." - N

James can't help the grin that wants to creep over his face; much as he resents the cereal comment - because that was one time, Natasha really knows him too well. He imagines she can hear his long suffering sigh in the tone of his reply;

"He wants to 'get to know me'. Which meant no getting to see that ass :((" - J

Natasha's reply comes back within seconds, and really, James can only imagine the look of glee on her face at his expense.

"I told you he was a good guy. So get to know him if it means he'll put out ;p" - N

He decides to ignore her and goes back to watching cat videos for the rest of the time before his next class. Just before he enters the lecture hall he hears a ping and checks his messages. Rebecca.

"I'm 20 in a month. That said, mostly they try to learn some self restraint and stop constructing elaborate fantasies about random strangers from the fronts of magazines and that one cute guy who works in your local 7/11 that I know you've still not spoken to."

James lets out a sort of strangled moan as he takes his seat, why do all of the women in his life hate him? The guy sat next to him gives him a nod and a look of understanding. He must have a rude ass sister and best friend too.

\--

James gets to the club relatively early that evening; Pierce wants to see him and James feels uncertainty curl in his stomach. It's only a small measure of comfort he thinks, that he knows it's not because of last night; Alexander didn't disapprove of him cancelling on his appointments, and he'd been understanding when he'd called - known that it was imperative to the mission he himself had given James. But that means it's something else, and James cannot for the life of him think of anything that could require his attention so urgently.

He thinks he understands when Luke tells him that Alexander isn't in his study, that instead he's waiting for him in a room on the floor below it; kept dimly lit and empty but for a rack on the wall with an array of.. Toys. James is surprised however, tonight is supposed to be his night with Brock.

He's a creature of habit and routine, that is something he and Brock share; possibly to do with their military background, but James knows he's been this way since he was very young. Routine and order are familiar, and James' life has been far from routine - it's a comfort to be able to plan out his days and the weeks ahead. Especially when for so long he'd been unable to do so; not knowing when the next blow was coming. How long until his next hot meal or warm place to sleep.

Alexander is waiting for him and James feels a little self conscious that he's not dressed ready; he's come straight here and not gone to get changed yet, still in his clothes from class earlier.

"James," Pierce gestures to the chair in the middle of the room, "please, sit."

His face is impassive and unconcerned, James nods and drops his backpack and jacket by the door, sinking down in front of the older man.

"I think we need to talk, James."

James swallows, his throat tightening a little, but he keeps his eyes trained on Alexander's.

"Brock has told me that it would appear this Rogers is a little infatuated with you?"

James considers for a moment, then nods; what else can he do? It is true that Steve would like to see more of him, Brock knows where he was last night and Natasha has made it clear that Steve didn't do anything to hide his good mood at work today. What would be the point in denying it?

With that Alex cups James' jaw carefully in a large hand, thumbing over a sharp cheekbone gently. The younger man closes his eyes and leans into it; this is his Sasha after all.

Pierce sighs, a soft sound that almost sounds like regret. James doesn't open his eyes, almost afraid to see what emotions are splashed across the other man's face, but he doesn't move away from the soft touches.

He hears Alex hesitate a little before he speaks, brushing a thumb over a pouty bottom lip before returning his attentions to the curve of his cheek. "James, do you intend to see more of this man?"

He stiffens a little at the thought; Alexander had asked him to see Steve, to take care of the problem that the blonde posed. But, would James want to see him again, if given the choice? Yes, he thinks, yes. This isn't just about following orders, James enjoys Stevens company, his respect for him as a person with wants and needs of his own.

"Yes."

He forces himself to relax, peers up at Alex with eyes wide open and honest. He knows he looks young and vulnerable like this, even if he's far from it. He may not be a soldier anymore, but special forces training isn't something that just ups and leaves you.

Pierce nods, a smile twisting his lips even as he frowns a little. It's not a happy smile, James thinks it could even be described as bittersweet.

"I give you permission James."

His breath catches in his throat a little at that, and he looks up at at the older man who's regarding him with a once fond, almost wistful look.

"James.. I brought you to this country, even gave you my name, but I understand you have wants and needs apart from those of a frail old man..."

James whimpers at that, leaning forwards to rest his head against Pierce's pressed shirt; rumpled slightly from a day sitting behind his desk. He smells of smoke and something faintly spicy, James keeps his eyes closed and breathes it in. He feels fingers wind carefully through his hair and doesn't make any attempt to restrain the sigh pulled from his lips as they dance cleverly over his scalp. Politicians hands he thinks, soft and uncalloused.

He feels his Sasha's gut vibrate as he speaks, cotton moving against his face; "You see James, I never intended on sharing your affections. Your services, obviously, are yours to sell and do with as you please, but your heart? No."

His voice is still soft and James can feel the burning sensation building at the corners of his eyes.

"Sashenka.." The name, a pet name, slips from his mouth and he feels the fingers in his hair tighten a little in response.

Suddenly Alex is crouched in front of him and he hears the click of the older man's knees as he lowers himself. James thinks of him in that moment, with a sudden rush of uncharacteristic possessiveness and care, in a way he never has before; he thinks of him with soft regard, as something frail and to be cherished.

He leans forwards so they're eye to eye, noses brushing.

"I don't love you anymore." The words slip from James lips and he wishes straight away that he could pull them back; here is the man who has given him everything. What right has James to throw it in his face?

"Oh James.. My little darling." Alexander leans forwards and brushes his lips gently over James' own. He feels his eyes slip shut almost involuntarily, squeezing back the traitorous drops of saltwater that are threatening to spill.

"I've not taken very good care of you, have I?" Alexanders voice, whilst still unwavering, sounds tinged with something that could be described as regret; and James immediately pulls away from that gentle hand so he can shake his head, eyes wide. That's not at all what he meant.

Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he reaches out a careful hand to brush James' hair back off of his forehead.

"Merely an observation on my part my darling, consider it a moment of clarity."

James remains still, he doesn't want to make any move nor sound that could be misconstrued as agreement or disagreement.

The brush of the elder man's lips upon his forehead relaxes his racing heart a little, but the gentle care forgoes what he can only describe as a verbal kick to the stomach; "As I said James, I am giving you my permission. Perhaps he will give you what I could not.."

James' protest is immediate and unrestrained; "you have given me everything Sashka!" He worries his lower lip between ungentle teeth and it takes the firm press of Alexander's own to draw it away before he bloodies it.

"And yet James, here we are." Alexander is still crouched in front of him, James legs splayed on either of him, and Alex takes his nervous hands in his own. Rests them on James' lap, keeping his grip gentle but firm.

"I am not asking you to give up what you have here James. Your job, your life, your education.. Those are gifts and I'm not in the habit of rescinding on promises."

James is finding it hard to maintain the eye contact that Alex so obviously desires, but he resists the urge to look away. Keeps fast with that steely gaze that looks deep inside him. Knows all of him.

"This is just.. James you no longer love me. I think that is perhaps my fault. So whilst everything else remains, tonight will be our last night together. I will not share that which belongs to me."

James lets the choked little sound fall from his lips but nods anyway. After all, isn't this what he wants? What he's been craving for a long time? Suddenly he isn't sure anymore.

"Will you do me a favour though James?"

James nods; there is nothing Alexander could ask of him in this moment that he would say no to.

"If he hurts you, if he ever does anything to threaten your position here - everything that you've worked for and we've built together - you won't be blinded by your love for him. You will come to me?"

Alexanders face is mired with care and concern, and with that James drops off of the chair to kneel on the floor in front of him. Wraps his arms around shoulders that are still strong, despite age. He clings to the older man for a minute, taking comfort in the massaging of a gentle hand on his back and reassuring noises clucked in his ear.

Sasha, his Sashka.. He has only ever wanted what is best for James. Has given him everything he has been able to. James suddenly feels like the most ungrateful man to ever walk the earth.

"Of course. Anything." He whispers, face muffled against Alexanders shoulder as he grasps desperately at the lapels of his suit.

"One last night then..?" The lips that brush his temple speak of tender care, are filled with warmth. It's a balm to James' wounded soul.

"Yes." He breathes softly, "yes."

If this is the last time he gets to be like this with his precious Sasha, the man who had once been his everything, his guiding light in the night.. He will close his eyes and imagine that it's still love writ upon both their hearts.

\--

James cannot see anything through the inky darkness of velvet; allows himself to forget in the darkness of the blindfold, to lose his sense of self.

He was in the darkness for a long time once, not like this though; that was a cold darkness with concrete floors and harsh voices - this is warmth.

All he can feel is the hard wood of the chair against his ass and back, the rope chafing his skin a little where it's tied tightly around his chest and ankles. He allows it to ground him, to stop his mind floating off and away into the dark without his permission.

He thinks to himself of words whispered under the cover of night once, a long time ago in hotel rooms a million miles away from where he is now;

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

There was a man named Sasha once; a man called Sasha who loved a man called Yasha and was loved in return.

Their love was not brilliant; it was not the kind of love that would make the history books. It didn't move mountains or inspire sagas. But it was a warm love; a gentle care that brought a lost man home.

He has to stifle a laugh when he thinks of the next line to follow;

"Old age should burn and rage at close of day.."

Because that's what this is, isn't it? Alexander is growing old and James is young, and he knew eventually that this would end, but he didn't imagine it would come so soon. It's only been two years since he came home, and they only had a few snatched months even before that with secret rendezvous across Moscow.

James feels gentle fingers trace over the dips and lines of his chest, breathes softly at the sensation. Lips ghost over his bare shoulders.

There are too many ghosts in the past of James Buchanan Barnes he thinks, and feels his chest tighten and the burn of salt beneath the tie around his eyes; it has been so much easier being James Pierce.

Words are murmured gently in his ear by the man behind him, and he allows his head to loll backwards against a firm chest. He loses himself in sensation; hands touching every inch of skin, a mouth mapping him from top to toe.

There is no pain here; this is worship, this is goodbye. He has to restrain a sob as Alexander captures flushed pink lips with his own, demanding but not forceful.

This, this is a swan song. This is a fond farewell to two men, characters really, who'd found a home in each other.

He's prepped gently by strong fingers; his bonds cut through so that Alex may take his place and sit, so he can pull James down on his lap and hold him close.

He loses himself in the pull of flesh on flesh; the sensation of being full, of being whole. He leans his head forwards against Alexanders chest and feels a heart beat in time with his own.

Their love making, not-love making, is as gentle as it was that first time. Tender and wholesome, and everything that James has wanted for so long but has been dangled just out of reach.

He knows in that moment that nothing, no Brock nor Steve nor anybody else, will ever come close to this. This isn't the love of two people with hearts entwined, this is two people mad for each other if not in love. This is thousands of miles and rescue from the cold. This is second chances and mended hearts.

He cries out as he feels the man below him go taut, heat filling him from within, his soft whimpers swallowed up by lips that pull him down for a searing kiss.

He sobs as they break apart.

"Sasha.."

Arms wrap around him then; cradling him like a child for a blessed stolen moment.

"I'm right here James."

Eventually the other man pushes him upright so he can stand; James sinks down with a hiss and watches as Alexander redresses carefully. There's a moment where their eyes meet and James feels something turn in his chest that feels a little like longing and regret. A gentle hand sweeps his sweaty hair back for him but doesn't linger.

Alex leaves him then, let's the door close behind him and suddenly James is alone in a nearly bare room naked as the day he was born in the half darkness.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

\--

James climbs straight into the shower as soon as he gets home; he can't think. He doesn't want to, it hurts too much, and there are far too many thoughts in his head clamouring for attention.

It feels like.. the end of an era.

James knows somewhere in the more rational part of his head that it was never going to last forever, and really, Alex and he haven't been the same men for a long time now. He's grateful that he at least still has the life they crafted together for him; he has school and his job, his apartment and his name. James Pierce.

He's tired though, he's so so tired. His life isn't his; he cannot even bear to tell his own sister or his best friends what he does for a living, how he even knows the Secretary who's giving him an honorary internship but also so much more.

He thinks to himself, how could he ever love Steve? Give himself over to another person when they can never truly know him? Know who he was? He consoles himself with the thought that he isn't that person anymore; Alexander didn't just give him a new identity, he rescued him from the dark nightmare of his past that he didn't need to carry with him anymore.

He shouldn't feel this quagmire that surrounds him, threatens to pull him under, he should feel unburdened. Free. He has been saved.

James wonders, for what he imagines will not be last time, whether tonight was the right thing; whether he should have just told Alexander that of course he still loved him, that he would never see Steve again if that is what Alex wished.

But.. That would have been a lie; and James' life is already made up of lies - spun together into a tapestry of a thousand threads. He doesn't want to add to it.

James shuts off the water and dries himself quickly, all he wants now is to sleep. To lose himself in dreams of better times. When he slips into bed he pulls his phone out, sends Steve a quick text before he falls asleep. He's exhausted and his body aches, but he can't help the small smile flickering at the corners of his mouth as he falls asleep with his hand on his phone;

"If you still wanted to do some more of that 'getting to know you stuff' this weekend, I'm not doing anything. Let me know :)" - J

James sleeps with hope in his heart.

\--  
Part 2  
\--

The next few days pass torturously slow for James; he tries to restrain himself from bombarding Steve with texts, but he sends him a few updates. Mostly stuff to do with his classes; Steve has frankly adorable enthusiasm, and surprisingly well formed opinions, about Renaissance and Baroque art - and James is taking intermediate classes in both this semester.

He's made Steve promise to show him some of his paintings, the other man claims he hasn't painted in a long time so the only ones he has in storage are from a few years back, but James doesn't mind. It's great to meet someone outside of his classes with similar interests.

James sees Brock on Thursday, which calms his restlessness a little; they don't do anything too exciting, at least, not enough to be of note, and even spend a little time down in the bar afterwards. Friday is a random agent he recalls seeing with Brock before. Westfahl he thinks? He's never bothered to ask his name.

All week there is this undercurrent of energy beneath his skin, he's not sure if it's anticipation for seeing Steve on Saturday, or if it's because he doesn't see Alexander at all; he finds he's oddly grateful for that though.

He needs time to find his feet; every part of his being still feels, in some small way, that he belongs to his Sasha - and though he knows the little voice in his head will quiet with time, it's not going to be an over night thing.

Finally Saturday comes and James spends the entire day making a pest of himself; texting Natasha pictures of the outfit he's laid out ready, reading her obviously well thought out comments, then changing his mind half an hour later and going through it all again. He's glad when it gets round to 5pm and he can justify starting to get ready - he thinks Natasha might just drive over to torture him in painful and unusual ways otherwise. He's not even sure he'd blame her at this point - he's more than aware he's being a little neurotic.

He's grateful for her begrudging tolerance of his enthusiasm though; he's not been like this over a date before in all of the time he's known her, and as she points out to him, she finds it oddly endearing. He is not adorable though, she can take that right back. Handsome, sexy as hell.. Sure. But;

"You do realize you're as wriggly and adorable as an excited puppy waiting for his owner to come home..?" - N

Now that's just out of line.

He won't ever tell her how much he appreciates her patience with his frankly diva-ish wardrobe issues though - eventually giving in and calling him, dictating over the phone exactly what clothes she wants him in. He's too on edge to settle on any one choice right now. He follows her instructions to the tee as well because she's demanded snapchats, and he knows better than to snap her wearing anything other than the outfit she has specified.

Steve is supposed to be picking him up at 7 to go to a bar or something, James isn't sure where or what kind - which would usually affect his outfit choice, so Natasha has him in black jeans tight enough they may as well be painted on, a dark grey v-neck tee and a black denim jacket. He has leather cord necklaces looped around his neck, silver charms settling in the v of his shirt, and he ties the back of his hair up, leaving his bangs loose. He wonders about smudging on some black eyeliner, but he doesn't want to come across too much of a twink if Steve wants to go to, God forbid, a sports bar or something.

He hesitates and shoves an eyeliner pencil in his jacket pocket - if they end up somewhere appropriate he can always do it quickly in the bathroom.

The doorman buzzes up to his apartment at five to 7 and James pats down the pockets on his jeans, checking he has his wallet phone and keys before he does something stupid like locking himself out. Though, that would be one way to get back to Steve's tonight he thinks with a wolfish smirk. 'Oh Steve I lost my keys.. Can I stay over until the super can let me in tomorrow?'

He shakes his head, ridding himself of his stupid grin and bad ideas, and takes a deep breath before doing down to greet the handsome blonde. His stomach still does this stupid fluttery thing when he lays eyes on him, and damn... Boy looks fine.

Dark jeans almost as tight as James' own, white long sleeved shirt and a grey suede-looking jacket tossed over one shoulder. His hair is artfully dishevelled and James can't help but wonder if Natasha has perhaps had a hand in the other man's outfit too. He really would not put it past her.

James doesn't keep him waiting and allows Steve to pull him in for a quick peck, meeting those plush pink lips eagerly as strong arms wrap around his waist. After Steve pulls back he takes a moment to play with the dog tags nestled at the base of the other man's throat, pressing against the delicious long line of Steve's body.

He feels rather than hears the other mans chuckle, chest vibrating against his own, and James feels his lips upturn in a soft smile almost involuntarily.

"C'mon, let's go." Steve's baritone is warm when he speaks, and he gives James a last squeeze before he pulls away. Holds the glass door open for James to exit first.

James thinks he could get used to Steve's old fashioned manners; there's something quite charming about the abashed smile on his face as James thanks him, lets him wrap an arm around his waist as they meander slowly towards the city centre. He hasn't met anyone before with such a gentle consideration for others; Steve was born in the wrong generation he thinks. He's from the era of men holding umbrellas for their partners to keep away the rain, of wrapping a warm coat over their shoulders in the cold.

It's nice. And really that's the only word for it; he doesn't find it condescending as he knows some people might, nor is it particularly sexy to know your partner is limited in his spontaneity by such ideals as 'doing the right thing', 'being a gentleman' and 'getting to know you'... But that warm care that seeps through every layer of his being, emanating from where Steve's hand rests against the small of his back? Yeah, that's nice.

\--  
  
James is relieved when they enter the bar Steve has chosen; it's not anywhere he's been before but it's not outside the realms of his comfort zone - it's actually somewhere he can picture himself coming with Nat and Clint on any other Saturday night.

The crowd is young enough that he thinks he might actually spot a few familiar faces from campus, but no one he actually knows to talk to. Steve asks for two beers at the bar before they take seats in a corner to themselves; at a little rounded table with a cushioned bench curling around it. Steve slides in next to him, far enough apart to be respectful, but close enough that their knees brush if James leans just so.

The flash of teeth and bright eyes he receives when he does makes him shift a little closer along the bench towards the handsome man - obviously touching is okay as long as it's on James' terms. He's starting to think that Steve's sweetly respectful nature is going to rot his teeth. Surely this man must have some dark secrets hidden at the core of him; he cannot be as saccharine sweet as a cinnamon roll all the way through? Nobody is that good, after all.

James is just going to have to work for it, to find out exactly what it takes for Steve to want to be bad...

After an hour James finds himself reconsidering that; Steve is quick to laugh and easy to talk to. But oh god is he snarky. James though he was bad, but Steve? It takes effort for James to keep up and he's always loved a challenge.

James tries to steer the conversation away from his past, after all, anything before two years ago doesn't belong to him; that man is long gone and buried. He feels comfortable talking about Clint and Natasha though; even if he is now potentially on the flame haired assassins hit list for the stories he's told. It's worth it though, to see Steve's eyebrows climb higher and higher towards his hairline in disbelief, his unrestrained laughter and the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles.

He talks to him about college, about the project he's working on for his studio class, and Steve suggests maybe they can go check out an art museum or something sometime. He feels something heat in the pit of his stomach watching the way Steve's cheeks flush slightly, his fingers nervously twining and untwining. Because that's the promise of another date isn't it? James smiles like the cat who got the cream in response, it's the fact that the handsome blonde looks so shy suggesting it too. He has to know exactly what James wants surely..?

He decides to up the ante a little, if Steve isn't going to put the moves on him James can at least do his absolute best to be a seductive little shit. So he asks about Steve's own art, about his preference for charcoal and oils; asks if he'd paint him like one of his French girls if he were to ask real nicely.

The scandalised look on the other man's face at that idea is enough to tide over James' illicit fantasises for weeks. He has to restrain himself from telling Steve so.

James is so wrapped up in Steve's smile, the way he waves his hands as he talks, and scrunches his nose slightly when talking about things to do with his military service, that he doesn't register the passing of time.

He only realises how late it's gotten when the bar starts to empty, and he looks round in obvious surprise when he sees they're nearly the only ones still here. Steve chuckles at his bemusement and suggests they get going, James doesn't want the night to end, but Steve's bike is parked outside his apartment and he's not drunk enough to warrant a cab. Maybe when they get back he can persuade the handsome blonde to come up for tea again. His stomach grumbles a little and he mentally tags "and also pizza" onto that.

It's when they leave the bar that the metaphorical shit hits the pan, James waits outside, a cigarette dangling casually from his lips, while Steve uses the bathroom. It's then that possibly the douchiest asshole James has ever met decides to make an appearance.

It's his own fault, he thinks in retrospect, he should have waited closer to the door of the bar, but out of politeness he'd moved down the block a little to stop his smoke bothering anyone else walking out after him.

The guy is tall, not as muscular as Steve but certainly bigger than James. He could still take him, he knows that, but the last thing he wants to do is cause a scene. Mr Asshole is alone and swaggers up to James where he's leaning against the brickwork, drawing slowly on his cigarette.

"Your blonde friend not make good sweetheart? Wouldn't want a pretty thing like you to be going home alone.."

James stays relaxed, shrugs one shoulder and flicks his ash to the side.

"Nah he's just in the bathroom."

The douchebag raises an eyebrow, fixes James with a leer as he looks him up and down. Lingering over the way the way his jeans hug every inch of skin.

"Now darling no need to be shy.. I'd take real good care of you, ya know?"

Several things happen at once then, firstly, James realises that this guy doesn't believe him and isn't getting the message. Secondly, the man reaches out a hand to brush back James bangs, stepping in to crowd him against the wall as his cigarette falls from his lips in surprise. And thirdly, Steve walks out of the bar and darts his eyes up and down the pavement looking for him.

It's a blur for a few seconds after that, but mostly James is aware of the asshole being torn away from him and dropped with a punch, and then his vision is filled with worried blue eyes and hands that pat him up and down as though checking for injuries.

James doesn't even think about it, even as he's aware that was a massive over reaction on Steve's part, the idea of the blonde wanting to be his night in shining armour does things to him. Good things. He throws his arms around Steve's neck and meets his lips with a searing kiss.

It's not gentle now, it's needy and teeth that clash together and nip at tender lips. James thinks if jealousy is what gets Steve going he is really going to have to start wearing less clothes in public.

Steve breaks away long enough for James to gasp "cab", because he is not waiting the entire walk home to continue this, and feels the blonde man huff against his neck where he's mouthing roughly at his throat. Lavishing the soft skin with small bites followed by kisses to soothe the irritated flesh.

\--

They burst through James' front door in a flurry of tangled limbs and heavy breathing; kisses stolen from swollen lips as Steve presses him back against the wall, using his muscular frame to his advantage as James keens and writhes against him.

His eyes roll back in his head as Steve mouths a line of wet heat down his throat, bites down when he finds that spot where his neck meets his shoulder. The whine that slips out is unintentional, desperate and needy, but he has no shame. Not here, not with this man; not when Steve is stepping into the space between his legs, lining them up so when he presses James back their hips grind together, that delicious friction of denim rubbing over his hard cock.

James wants. Deeply, desperately; from the centre of his heaving chest right down to his toes curled in his boots.

His hands scrabble for purchase in Steve's short hair, earlier it was artfully tousled but now it's damp with sweat and sticking up on one side. As Steve rolls his hips, bracketing arms against the wall on either side of James to keep him upright, he feels the need coiling in the depths of his stomach.

"Shirt off," he gasps, tearing his lips away just long enough to get the words out before diving back in eagerly.

It's not gentle or tender, all sharp teeth and bruising kisses that steal the air from his lungs and make him dizzy. He's grateful for the solid presence of the wall behind him.

Steve grabs underneath his thighs and the sensation of 'lift' does funny things to his stomach; James grabs at Steve's muscled biceps with desperate hands, feeling them tense and strain as they bear his weight. He wraps his legs around that sculpted waist, presses their groins together, unable and unwilling to curb the moan that follows.

Steve is panting hard against his mouth, completely unrelenting as pink flush lips nip at his own; James wants him inside him right this minute and doesn't quite know what he'd do should Steve protest.

Thankfully the gorgeous blonde seems long past "getting to know him" now; which is just as well James thinks, because Steve is about to know him deeply, desperately and intimately. There will be no going back from this, he knows that much.

This isn't like with Brock or any of the others; this isn't work nor duty. This is James and Steve and two souls both alone for far too long coming together under the cover of darkness. He'd swear there are fireworks going off underneath his skin; sparks wherever Steve's bare skin meets his own.

He leans away from the other man for a moment, so he can shed his shirt and press his own now naked torso against Steve's own. Skin damp and slightly salty with sweat, with the heat of it all.

Steve pulls away from the wall then, still carrying James, and staggers towards the bedroom. Dumps him on the bed where James bounces with a laugh, but follows him down eagerly, unwilling to stop laying kisses on every part of him that he can reach.

James curls into him and hums with delight when Steve moves down his body, presses his lips to the dip in his chest, over the defined lines of his stomach. He wriggles and kicks his boots off his his feet where they dangle over the edge of the bed. Steve is kneeling with a leg on either side of his waist, and when the blonde pulls away from sucking a line of red marks on the v of his hips James takes the opportunity to attack his belt and the button on his jeans.

Steve tries to reciprocate but it ends in James laughing until tears escape long dark lashes, his jeans are so tight he'd have to be veritably peeled out of them. He pushes Steve off, the other man rolling to one side, so James can struggle his way free from his denim cage.

When they're both naked, skin damp as they move together in an urgent press of hips and mouths, it should be gross. It's not; it's messy and sweaty and absolutely perfect.

There's no time to prep James, so they don't bother with penetration, it's enough to be lying here with Steve's weight bearing down on them as he takes both their cocks in hand.

James shudders as the slick feeling of flesh on flesh overtakes all other thought, reduces him to a writhing bundle of muscle and sweetness in Steve's arms. When he comes he could swear he sees stars, and that's the last conscious thought he has; he passes out with his head tucked under Steve's chin, strong arms wrapped around him holding him safe through the night.

\--

When James wakes the space at his side is empty; the covers folded back and the other pillow cold. The flutter in his heart is short lived though - he can smell something delicious filling the apartment and a soft smile graces his lips when he realises it means Steve is making breakfast.

He has to resist the urge to roll over and swipe his phone out of the pocket of his jeans; to fire off a text of unrestrained glee to Natka. This is quiet and soft he thinks, he doesn't want to be interrupted by demanding texts and the impatient buzzing of his phone, this is about him and Steve and their first Sunday morning that James hopes with every inch of his being is indicative of many more to come.

He slips on a pair of sweats from the dresser; the ones on the floor are missing so Steve must have stolen them, and, after brushing his teeth so his breath is fresh and minty, he goes in search of the handsome blonde.

Oh god, he's making pancakes - something warm and fluttery twists in James gut as he watches Steve through the open bedroom doorway, at the stove in James' own sweats and an apron. The smell of singed butter and fresh pancake goodness isn't half as delicious as the sight of Steve's bare back, muscles rippling as he moves easily around James' kitchen like he belongs there.

He bites his lip and has to restrain the soft sigh that wants to escape; if this is the American Dream - a gorgeous blonde who holds doors for him, defends his honour in bar fights, offers him his coat in the cold, and stands in his kitchen cooking him pancakes on Sunday's.. James is glad to be home.

He sneaks up behind Steve as quietly as he can and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin on the blondes shoulder, a pleased hum rumbling in his chest.

"Morning handsome.."

Steve leans back against his chest, and James revels in the feeling of warmth that comes with all that muscle pressed against the length of his body. He thinks they might even sway slightly.

"Morning gorgeous.." Steve twists round slightly in his arms so he can press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

James sighs and let's him go before the pancakes burn, there's already a stack finished on a plate beside the stove but Steve bats his hand away with a spatula when he makes to grab one.

"Set the table!" James can't help the bubble of laughter looking at Steve threateningly wielding a spatula whilst half naked and with bed mussed hair.

"Sure doll." James' reply is droll, and he ignores Steve's eye roll as he scoffs in reply.

There's no other word for it really; it's just easy... They move around each other in the small kitchen as though it's natural, like its a dance.

The table is quickly set with two plates, different syrups and a box of blueberries. Steve, for all his protesting about making a mess, doesn't seem to mind too much when James squirts him with the whip cream - and proceeds to lick it back off where it's fallen in the dip between his collarbones. James makes sure to maintain eye contact while he does and he'd be smirking right now if he could in his current position, Steve blushes with his whole body.

They finally sit, Steve still wearing the "kiss the chef" apron Nat got him as a gag gift, and James can't take his eyes off the other man. His cheeks are still faintly flushed, blue eyes wide.

The conversation comes easy to them as they eat, passing bites of food back and forth between them, James making sure to swipe his pink tongue over the tines of Steve's fork while looking him in the eye.

He greatly enjoys the way it makes Steve swallow audibly, cheeks flushing a little again. Maybe after breakfast Steve can be persuaded that round two is a very, very good idea..? James watches how Steve's eyes track the curve of his lips, the way his breathing hitches a little as he swipes his tongue over the cherry red flesh. Steve won't need much persuading he thinks triumphantly.

Inevitably it ends in a food fight; there's only so many times you can "miss" while feeding your partner pancakes and whipped cream, as an excuse to clean the mess off with your tongue of course, before it deteriorates into childish flinging of pastry and blueberries.

Steve comes to his senses first, dropping his fork and backing away from the table with his hands raised in mock surrender. James smirks because now Steve is a sitting target; he vaults off his chair, bottle of chocolate sauce aimed in Steve's direction, and they fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Steve is laughing as much as protesting, but even though James is the one on top, straddling Steve's hips where he's laid out on his back, it's Steve who gets him pinned with his arms tucked behind his back in a careful grip.

"Stop Bucky, stop!"

Steve is still grinning up at him, but James feels every inch of his body go cold.

\--

"..What did you call me?"

It's then that Steve seems to realise his mistake, shakes his head desperately whilst stumbling over his words.

"James I am so so sorry! It's just, I had this friend as a kid and we were always getting up to stuff like this."

He looks earnestly apologetic, as though he's worried James thinks this is a "ex-partners name called out in the heat of the moment" thing.

It's not. And James feels so heavy he thinks his soul might have just turned to stone. How had he not realised? James stands and offers Steve a hand to pull him up too, he's upset but he's not a dick.

"I think you should maybe go."

Alright, maybe he is a dick. Steve looks completely crushed and James turns away to start cleaning up the mess. He can't look at the hurt evident in those blue eyes right now or he'll crumble.

Steve is quick about dressing, though he hesitates at the door when he goes to leave. James wants to take pity on him but he just.. Can't. Alexander is going to be furious.

"Can I.. Call you?" Steve is biting his lip and his eyes are shiny and James feels like the biggest asshole on the planet.

"Give it a day or two." He chokes the words out, he can't even explain this to Steve, how could he? And it's killing him to send the other man away.

Fucking Steven Grant Rogers. He doesn't look the same but then neither does James. 10 years will do that to a man.

Steve nods and looks torn even as he waves from the end of the corridor. James slumps to the wooden floor with his back against the front door after he closes it, and he doesn't even try to restrain the tears when they come.

He should have known. He should have known that he wouldn't be allowed the pleasure of a soft simple life, the careless ease with which everyone else gets to live. He's not meant for walks in the rain and pancakes on Sundays. Maybe Bucky Barnes was, but James Pierce..?

James is cold winters, nights with strangers and the brutality of a life of a prisoner of war. James is what remains after Bucky Barnes disappeared into the night, after the handsome boy with a smile that could light up a room was declared AWOL - and faced military court when he was finally freed by his captors. Bucky Barnes is afternoons spent in Prospect Park and under the sun at Luna Park in Coney Island. James Pierce is running, hiding, fear.. James Pierce isn't even really a person.

No one but his sister has called him Bucky since he was 18 years old.

He chokes back a sob of disbelief; it makes so much sense now why Steve's eyes are so familiar, he knows every inch of this man. The muscles are new, and sure he's a little taller, but then they'd always said puberty was just coming a little late for Stevie. He's lost his Brooklyn accent too, it's too DC and military brass now to be that familiar cadence from his childhood. But then, James can't talk. He speaks Russian without a hint of an American accent for god's sake.

The tears come thick and fast as he hides his face in his hands, curling up on himself. He doesn't even have anyone to call; no one besides himself knows the entire story of the life of James Buchanan Barnes Pierce. He's so alone. He wants Sasha. He wants to go home. He is home. 


End file.
